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CITY OF THE PLAGUE, 



AND 



OTHER POEMS. 



By 



JOHN WILSON, 



AUTHOR OF THE ISLE OF PALMS. 



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EDINBURGH : 

FRINGED BY GEORGE RAMSAY AND COMPANY, 

FOR ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND COMPANY, EDINBURGH; 

JOHN SMITH AND SON, GLASGOW; ■ 

AND LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, 

LONDON. 



1816. 







£ 



V$ .' 



n, 



THE 

CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



CONTENTS. 



[ 



The City op the Plague Page 3 

Miscellaneous Poems. 

The Children's Dance 171 

Address to a Wild Deer 188 

The Voice of Departed Friendship.. 197 

Lord Ronald's Child 2<X 

The Widow 207 

Solitude * 213 

Bessy Bell and Mary Gray 216 

The Scholar's Funeral 223 

The Convict 241 

The Sisters 292 

The Farewell and Return 295 



( 



THE 

CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



ACT I 



SCENE I. 

Time, the Afternoon. — Two Naval Officers walking along 
the banks of the Thames* — They sit down on a stone 
seat fronting the river. 

Frankfort. My heart feels heavier every step I take 
Towards the city. Oh ! that I could drop 
Down like a bird upon its nest, at once 
Into my mother's house. There might my soul 
Find peace, even 'raid the silent emptiness 
That told me she had perish'd. 

Wilmot. All around 

Appears so bright, so tranquil, and so calm, 
That happy omens rise on every side, 
To strengthen and support us in our fears. 

Frank. Oh Wilmot ! to my soul a field of graves/ 
A church-yard filled with marble monuments. 



4 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act 1. 

Profoundly hush'd in death's own sanctity, 
Seems not more alien to the voice of Hope 
Than that wide wilderness of domes and spires, 
Hanging o'er the breathless city. 

Wil. See ! my friend, 

How bright the sunshine dances in its joy 
O'er the still flow of this majestic river. 
I know not how, but, gazing on that light 
So beautiful, all images of death 
Fade from my roused soul, and I believe 
That our journey here must end in happiness. 

Frank. Is it the hour of prayer ? 

Wil. The evening service, 

Methinks, must now be closed. 

Frank. There comes no sound 

Of organ-peal or choral symphony 
From yonder vast cathedral. How it stands 
Amid the silent houses, with a strange 
Deep silence of its own ! I could believe 
That many a Sabbath had pass'd prayerless on 
Within its holy solitude. No knee 
This day, methinks, hath bent before its altar. 

Wil. It is a solemn pile ! yet to mine eye 
There rests above its massive sanctity 
The clear blue air of peace. 

Frank. A solemn pile ! 

Aye ! there it stands, like a majestic ruin, 
Mouldering in a desert 5 in whose silent heart 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 

No sound hath leave to dwell. I knew it once, 
When music in that chosen temple rais'd 
TV adoring soul to Heaven. But one dread year 
Hath done the work of ages 5 and the Plague 
Mocks in his fury the slow hand of time. 

Wil. The sun smiles on its walls. 

Frank. Why does the finger, 

Yellow 'mid the sunshine on the Minster-clock, 
Point at that hour ? It is most horrible, 
Speaking of midnight in the face of day. 
During the very dead of night it stopp'd, 
Even at the moment when a hundred hearts 
Paus'd with it suddenly, to beat no more. 
Yet, wherefore should it run its idle round ? 
There is no need that men should count the hours 
Of time, thus standing on eternity. 
It is a death-like image. 

Wil. I could smile 

At such fantastic terrors. 

Frank, ; How can I, 

When round me silent Nature speaks of death, 
Withstand such monitory impulses ? 
When yet far off I thought upon the plague, 
Sometimes my mother's image struck my soul 
In unchang'd meekness and serenity, 
And all my fears were gone. But these green banks, 
With an unwonted flush of flowers overgrown, 
Brown, when I left them last, with frequent feet, 



fi THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

From morn till evening, hurrying to and fro, 
In mournful beauty seem encompassing 
A still forsaken city of the dead. 

Wil. It is the Sabbath-day — the day of rest. 

Frank. O unrejoicing Sabbath ! not of yore 
Did thy sweet evenings die along the Thames 
Thus silently ! Now every sail is furl'd, 
The oar hath dropt from out the rower's hand, 
And on thou flow'st in lifeless majesty, 
River of a desert lately filled with joy 1 
O'er all that mighty wilderness of stone 
The air is clear and cloudless as at sea 
Above the gliding ship. All fires are dead, 
And not one single wreath of smoke ascends 
Above the stillness of the towers and spires. 
How idly hangs that arch magnificent 
Across the idle river ! Not a speck 
Is seen to move along it. There it hangs, 
Still as a rainbow in the pathless sky. 

WiL Methinks such words bespeak a soul at rest, 
And willing, in this universal calm, 
To abide, whate'er it be, the doom of Fate. 

Frank, I feel as if such solemn images 
Of desolation had recall'd my soul 
From its own individual wretchedness ; 
As if one moment I forgot my parent, 
And all the friends I love, in the sublime 
And overwhelming presence of mortality. 



Scene h THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 7 

Wil. Now, that your soul feels strong, let us proceed, 
With humble hope, towards your mother's house. 

Frank. No, friend ! here must we part ! If e'er again 
We meet in this sad world, thou may'st behold 
A wretch bow'd down to the earth by misery, 
Ghost-like 'mid living men ; but rest assur'd, 

gentlest friend ! that, though my soul be dead 
To all beside, at sight of thee 'twill burn 

As with the everlasting fires of joy, 
Bursting its bonds of mortal wretchedness. 

JUL We must not — will not part. 

Frank. Now, and for ever. 

1 walk into yon city as the tomb ! 

A voice comes to me from its silent towers, 
" Mortal, thy days are number'd !" Ere I go, 
Kiss me, and promise that my name shall live 
Sacred for ever in thy memory. 

Wil. We must not—will not part. 

Frank. What said my friend ? 

Wil. Here, by my father's soul (a fearless man, 
Who us'd to say he never lov'd his friends 
But in their combats with adversity,) 
I swear (and may we never meet in Heaven 
If that dread oath be broken) day and night, 
Long as thou sojourn'st on thy work of love 
Within this plague- struck city, at thy side 
To move for ever an attending shadow ; 
Amid the silence or the shrieks of death, 



8 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Serene in unappalled confidence, 

That thou wilt walk unharm'd, wilt find the house 

Of thy parent, and her holy family 

Pass'd over by the angel of the Lord ! 

For the blessings of the poor have sanctified 

The widow's lowly porch — life still is there. 

Frank. O friend ! most cruel from excess of love ! 
In all the beauty of thy untam'd spirit 
Thou walkest to perdition. Do not I 
Look, as I feel, most like thy murderer ? 
Return unto our ship. 

Wil. Frankfort, remember 

When the wild cry, " A man is overboard," 
Rung through our decks, till dumb and motionless 
Stood the whole crew, fear-stricken by the storm. 
Who at that moment leapt into the sea, 
And seiz'd the drowning screamer by the hair ? 
Who was that glorious being ? Who the wretch 
Then rescued from the waves ? I lov'd thee well 
Before I hung upon thy saving arm 
Above the angry waves. But, from that hour, 
I felt my soul call'd on by Providence 
To dedicate itself for aye to thee, 
And God's will must be done. 

Frank. Wilmot, dost think 

My mother can be living ? 

Wil. The soul oft feels 

Mysterious presence of realities 






Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 

Coming we know not whence, yet banishing 
With power omnipotent all misgiving fears. 
So feel I at this moment — she is living. 

Frank. O God forbid ! that I should place belief 
In these dim sj^idowings of futurity. 
Here, on this very spot where now we rest, 
Upon the morning I last sail'd from England, 
My mother put her arms around my neck, 
And in a solemn voice, unchok'd by tears, 
Said, " Son ! a last farewell !" That solemn voice, 
Amid the ocean's roaring solitude, 
Oft past across my soul, and I have heard it 
Steal in sad music from the sunny calm. 
Upon our homeward voyage, when we spake 
The ship that told us of the Plague, I knew 
That the trumpet's voice would send into our souls 
Some dismal tidings ; for I saw her sails 
Black in the distance, flinging off with scorn 
A shower of radiance from the blessed sun, 
As if her crew would not be comforted. 
. Wil. The weakness of affection, prone to fear ! 
Be comforted by me — my very dreams 
Of late have all been joyous. 

Frank. Joyous dreams ! 

My hours of sleep are now but few indeed, 
Yet what have I still dreamt of ? healthful faces, 
Round a sweet fire- side, bright with gratitude ? 
The soft voice of domestic happiness ? 



10 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Laughter disturbing with the stir of joy 

The reveries of the spirit? — Oh ! my friend ! 

Far other sounds and sights have fill'd my dreams ! 

Still noiseless floors, untrod by human feet; 

Chairs standing rueful in their emptiness £ 

An unswept hearth chok'd up by dust and ashes ; 

Beds with their curtains idly hanging down 

Unmov'd by the breath of life ; wide open windows 

That the fresh air might purify the room 

From vapours of the noisome pestilence ; 

In a dark chamber, ice-cold like a tomb, 

A corpse laid out — O God ! my mother's corpse 

Woefully altered by a dire decay ; 

While my stunn'd spirit shudder'd at the toll, 

The long, slow, dreary, sullen, mortal toll 

Of a bell swinging to the hand of death. 

But this is idle raving — hope is gone— 

And fears and apprehensions, day and night, 

Drive where they will my unresisting soul. 

Wil. But that it is day-light, I could believe 
That yonder, moving by the river side, 
Came on a ghost. Did ever eye behold 
A thing so death-like in the shape of man ? 

[An old man of a miserable and squalid appearance 

comes tip, carrying an infant in his arms.~] 
Frank. God's blessing on thee ! wilt thou rest, old 

man, 
Upon this traveller's seat ? 



* 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 11 

Old Man, God's blessing on thee ! 

What, dost thou mean to taunt with mockery 
An old man tottering to the grave ? What pleasure 
Can ye young wretches find in scoffing thus 
At the white hfcid of hunger'd beggary ? 
Have ye no fathers ? Well it is for them 
That their dry hearts are spar'd the bitterness 
Of seeing, in the broad and open day, 
Their reckless children sporting with old age. 

Frank. Father, judge kindly of us. 

Old Man, Let me go 

Untroubled on my w*ay. Do you pity me ? 
Then give me alms : this thing upon my arm 
Is teasing me for food : I have it not — 
Give me your alms. 

Frank. See ! here is bread, old man j 

I ask your blessing — come you from the city, 
And none-to guide your steps along the brink 
Of this great river ? 

Old Man. Yea ! they all are dead 

Who once did walk with me most lovingly, 
Slowlier than these slow steps. This piece of wood, 
This staff, is all I have to lean on now, 
And this poor baby, whom its nurse would give 
For a short pastime to his grandsire's arms, 
No other nurse hath now, but wither'd age- 
Sour, sullen, hopeless, God-forsaken age. 

Frank, Is the Plague raging ? 



12 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Old Man. Aye, and long will rage. 

The judgments of the prophets of old time 
Are now fulfilling. Young men turn and flee 
From the devoted city. Would ye hear 
What now is passing in yon monster's teart ? 

Frank. We listen to thy voice. 

Old Man. Three months ago 

Within my soul I heard a mighty sound 
As of a raging river, day and night 
Triumphing through the city : 'twas the voice 
Of London sleepless in magnificence. 
This morn I stood and listen'd. x< Art thou dead, 
Queen of the world !" I ask'd my awe-struck heart, 
And not one breath of life amid the silence 
Disturbed the empire of mortality. 
Death's icy hand hath frozen, with a touch, 
The fountain of the river that made glad 
The City of the Isle! 

Frank. We hear thy voice. 

Old Man. Sin brought the judgment : it was terrible. 
Go read your Bible, young men ; hark to him 
Who, in a vision, saw the Lion rage 
Amid the towers of Judah, while the people 
Fell on their faces, and the hearts of kings 
Perish'd, and prophets wonder'd in their fear. 
Then came the dry wind from the wilderness, 
Towards the hill of Sion, not to fan 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 13 

Or cleanse, but, whirlwind-like, to sweep away 
The tents of princes and the men of war. 

Frank. Wilmot ! methinks most like an ancient pro- 
phet, 
With those white locks and wild unearthly eyes, 
He comes forth from the desolated city, 
A man who cannot die. O may I ask, 
Most reverend father, if 

Old Man. Hush! hush! lie still !— 

Didst hear this infant cry ? So small a sound 
Ought not to startle thus a wretch who comes 
From a three-months' sojourn in a sepulchre. 
Here ! infant, eat this bread, and hold thy peace. 
Young men, disturb me not with foolish questions ; 
Your faces are towards the city : Will ye dare 
The monster in his den ? Then go and die ! 
Two little drops amid a shower of rain, 
Swallowed up in a moment by the heedless earth. 

Frank. I fain would ask one question ; for, old man, 
My parent lived in London, and I go 
To seek her in that city of the tombs. 

Old Man. Think of her with the dead ! A ship at sea 
(Methinks I speak unto a mariner) 
Goes to the bottom. Would you hope to find 
Your friend alone, of all the fated crew, 
Alive on a plank next day amid the waves ? 
Think of her with the dead ! and praise the Lord ! 

Wilmot. Let us begone, the day is wearing fast. 



14 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Old Man. Know ye what you will meet with in the 
city ? 
Together will ye walk, through long, long streets, 
All standing silent as a midnight church. 
You will hear nothing but the brown red grass 
Rustling beneath your feet ; the very beating 
Of your own hearts will awe you ; the small voice 
Of that vain bauble, idly counting time, 
Will speak a solemn language in the desert. 
Look up to heaven, and there the sultry clouds, 
Still threatening thunder, lower with grim delight, 
As if the Spirit of the plague dwelt there, 
Darkening the city with the shadows of death. 
Know ye that hideous hubbub ? Hark, far off 
A tumult like an echo ! on it comes, 
Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning prayer ; 
And louder than all outrageous blasphemy. 
The passing storm hath left the silent streets. 
But are these houses near you tenantless ? 
Over your heads from a window, suddenly 
A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death 
With voice not human. Who is he that flies, 
As if a demon dogg'd him on his path ? 
With ragged hair, white face, and bloodshot eyes, 
Raving, he rushes past you ; till he falls, 
As if struck by lightning, down upon the stones, 
Or, in blind madness, dash'd against the wall, 
Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof, 1 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 15 

And let the Pest's triumphal chariot 

Have open way advancing to the tomb. 

See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry 

Of earthly kings ! A miserable cart, 

Heap'd up with human bodies ; dragg'd along 

By pale steeds, skeleton-anatomies ! 

And onwards urged by a wan meagre wretch, 

Doom'd never to return from the foul pit, 

Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror. 

Would you look in ? Grey hairs and golden tresses, 

Wan shrivell'd cheeks that have not smil'd for years ; 

And many a rosy visage smiling still ; 

Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt, 

With age decrepit, and wasted to the bone ; 

And youthful frames, august and beautiful, 

In spite of mortal pangs, — there lie they all 

Embrac'd in ghastliness ! But look not long, 

For haply, 'mid the faces glimmering there. 

The well known cheek of some beloved friend 

Will meet thy gaze, or some small snow-white hand, 

Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair. 

Let me sit down beside ycu. I am faint 

Talking of horrors that I look'd upon 

At last without a shudder. 

Frank. Give me the child. 

Old Man. Let the wretch rest. 'Twas but a passing 
pang, 
And I feel strong again. Dost smile, poor babe ? 



16 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Yes ! Thou art glad to see the full-orb'd eye, 

The placid cheek, and sparkling countenance 

Of ruddy health once more 5 and thou wouldst go 

With them thy young heart thinks so beautiful, 

Nor ever look behind at the old man 

Who brought thee from the grave ! Sweet thoughtless 

wretch, 
I cling to thee with a more desperate love 
Because of thy ingratitude. 

Frank. Old man, 

Is thy blood in his veins ? 

Old Man. All dead—all dead ! 

Round the baptismal font with awe we knelt, 
My four sweet daughters and their loving husbands. 
I held my last-born grandchild in my arms, 
But as the hallow'd water touch'd her face, 
Even then she sicken'd, and a mortal paleness 
Froze every parent's cheek. * The Plague is here," 
The priest exclaim'd ; and like so many ghosts, 
We parted in the church-yard. O my God ! 
I know that Thou in wrath art merciful, 
For Thou hast spar'd this babe for my old age ! 
But all who knelt round that baptismal font 
Last Sabbath morning — one short week ago— 
Are dead and buried — save one little child, 
And a grey-headed man of fourscore years. 

Frank. I dare not comfort thee. 

Old Man. Why not, sweet youth ! 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 1/ 

Thy very voice is comfort — my dim eyes 
Look on thee like a vision of delight 
Coming back in beauty from th' abyss of years* 
Let me hear thy voice once more ! 

Frank. Father ! that book 

With whose worn leaves the careless infant plays 
Must be the Bible. Therein thy dim eyes 
Will meet a cheering light, and silent words 
Of mercy breath 'd from heaven, will be exhal'd 
From the blest page into thy wither'd heart. 
The grace of God go with thee. 

Old Man. Gentle youth ! 

Thy voice reminds me of a boy who died 
Thirty long years ago. Thou wilt pass on, 
And we must meet no more ; yet could I think 
Thou wert my son returning from the grave, 
Or from some far-off land where he had gone 
And left us to our tears. 

Frank. They are not lost 

Who leave their parents for the calm of heaven. 
Forgive a young man speaking thus to age, 
'Tis done in love and reverence. 

Old Man. Tis the Bible ! 

I know and feel it is a blessed book, 
And I remember how it stopp'd my tears 
In days of former sorrows, like some herb 
Of sovereign virtue to a wound applied. 
But thou wilt pity me, when I confess 



18 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

That ofttimes more than mortal agony 

Shoots through my heart, when the most holy words 

Of Jesus shine before me. There I see 

Miracles of mercy and of saving love : 

The widow sings for joy, — deliverance 

Comes to the madman howling in his chains,— 

And life stirs in the tomb. I shut the book, 

And wonder where I am ; for all around me 

Looks as if God had left this woeful earth 

To ruin and despair, while his own word 

Doth seem delusion, or with fearful doubts 

My soul disturbs in sore perplexity. 

To the Hebrew prophecies my spirit turns, 

And feeds on wailing lamentations, 

And dim forebodings of Almighty wrath. 

Yea ! often do I see this very Plague 

By these wild seers foretold, and all their songs 

So doleful speak unto my ringing ear 

Of this dread visitation. Idle dreams 

Of my old crazed brain ! But aye they haunt me, 

And each plain phrase is cloth'd with mystic meaning 

In spite of reason ; sad bewildering ! 

When still the soul keeps fighting with its fetters, 

Yet hugs them self-impos'd. 

Frank. Such dreams will vanish 

When the sweet rural air, or breeze from the sea 
Sings round thee. Art thou going to a home 
Where wife or child expect thee ? 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 19 

Old Man. Hush, sweet babe. 
There is a dwelling on the lone sea-shore 
Where I will carry thee. — An Angel's voice 
Told me to leave the city. You will see her, 
The Angel of the poor ! Through every street 
The radiant Creature walks 

Wil. to frank. Though dark his brain, 

It has, thou seest, a heavenly visitor, 
That comfort brings when reason's self is gone. 

Old Man. 'Tis no delusion. When you see her face, 
Her pale face smiling on you suddenly, 
Pale almost as the raiment that she wears, 
And hear her voice, all one low mournful tone,. 
Charming away despair, then will ye say 
" The Angel this of whom the old man spake ;" 
Yet something lying far within her eyes 
Will tell that she is mortal. — Fare ye well ! 
But list ! sweet youths ! where'er ye go, beware 
Of those dread dwellings all round A ldgate- church, 
For to me it seemeth that most dismal pile 
Is the black Palace of the Plague, and none 
May pass it by and live. God bless you both. 

\The Old Man passes on.~] 

Frank. His words have sent a curse into my heart. 
The miserable spoke of misery 
Even with his parting farewell. Aldgate-church ! 
Wil. He passeth like a shadow from the city ! - 
A solemn traveller to the world of spirits. 



50 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I, 

Methought his hollow and unearthly voice 
Came from the desolation of his soul 
Like the wind at midnight moaning past our ship, 
A ghastly sound once heard and never more. 
- — Frankfort speak to me. 

Frank. All round Aldgate-church ! 

Said he not so ? Close to that church-yard wall 
My mother's dwelling stands : her bed-room window 
Looks o'er the grave- stones and the marble tombs. — 
All hope is dead within me. 

Wil. Shall I go 

And ask the old man if he knows your mother, 
Perhaps 

Frank. Oh ! ask him not, an hour, will bring us 
In presence of the house where I was born. 
I wish he had staid with us yet a while, 
For his voice held me in captivity, 
Wild voice and haggard cheek. He heeded not 
Me or my sorrow — in his misery 
Both blind and deaf, without the help of age. 
Methinks I see the cold wet tombstone lying 
Upon my father's grave — another name, 
" Mary his wife," is graven 

Wil. All have not perish'd. 

Frank. What, hoping still I Come, let us onwards walk 
With heads uncover'd, and with prostrate souls, 
Unto the humbled city of despair. 
Amid the roar of ocean-solitude 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 21 

God hath been with us, and his saving hand 
Will be our anchor in this dreadful calm, 
This waveless silence of the sea of death. 

SCENE II. 
A great square in the city. — A multitude of miserable 
men and women crowding round a person of a wild and 
savage appearance, dressed in a fantastical garb, with 
an hour-glass in his hand. 

Astrologer. The sun is going down, and when he sets, 
You know my accursed gift of prophecy 
Departeth from me, and I then become 
Blind as my wretched brethren. Then the Plague 
Riots in darkness 'mid his unknown victims, 
Nor can I read the names within his roll 
Now register'd in characters of blood. 
Come to me all ye wearied who would rest, 
Who would exchange the fever's burning pillow 
For the refreshing coolness of the grave ! 
Come hither all ye orphans of a day, 
And I will tell you when your heads shall rest 
Upon your parents' bosoms. Yearn ye not 
To clasp their shroudless bodies, and to lie 
In the dark pit by love made beautiful ! 
Where are ye veiled widows ? in the tomb 
The marriage-lamp doth burn unquenchably. 
Dry up your tears, fair virgins ! to the grave 
Betrothed in your pure simplicity ! 



22 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act £ 

Still is one countenance beautiful in death, 
And it will lean to-night upon a breast 
White with the snows of perfect innocence. 
—I call upon the wicked ! let him shew 
His face among the crowd, and I will tell him 
His dreams of horror and his works of sin. 

\_A man of a fierce and ferocious aspect advances from 
the crowd.'] 
Stranger. I ask thee not, thou juggling driveller, 
Whether the Plague hath fix'd his eyes on me, 
Determin'd to destroy^ Let them who fear 
Death and his pit, with pale beseeching hands 
Buy with their monies the awards of fate, 
And die in poverty. Thou speak'st of guilt, 
And know'st forsooth each secret deed of sin 
Done in the dark hour. Tell me, driveller ! 
Where I, who lay no claim to honesty, 
Came by this gold. I'll give thee half of it 
If thou speak'st truly. Was there robbery ? 

Astrologer. Flee murderer ! from my sight ! I touch 
thy gold ! 
'Twould stain my fingers ! See the blood-gouts on it. 
Hither thou com'st in savage hardihood, 
Yet with a beating heart. I saw thee murder himj 
What were his silver hairs, his tremulous voice, 
His old blind eyes to thee ! — Ha ! shrinking off, 
Aw'd by a driveller ! Seize the murderer ! 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE, 23 



You will find the bloody knife- 



[ The man rushes off, and all make "way for him,'] 
Astrologer. Mine eyes at once 

Did read the murderer's soul. 

Voice from the crowd. Guilt nor disease 

Are hidden from his ken — he knows them all. 

[Two women advance eagerly from the crowd.'] 
1st Woman. Listen to me before that woman speaks. . 
I went this morning to my lover's house, 
Mine own betrothed husband, who had come 
From sea two days ago. The house was empty - 9 
As the cold grave that longeth for its coffin 
'Twas damp and empty ; and I shriek'd in vain 
On him who would not hear. Tell me his fate, 
Say that he lives, or say that he is dead — 
But tell me, — tell me, lest I curse my God, 
Some tidings of him ; should'st thou see him lying 
Even in yon dreadful pit. Do you hear ? speak, speak ! 
O God ! — no words can be so terrible 
As that mute face whose blackness murders hope, 
And freezes my sick soul. Heaven's curse light on thee, 
For that dumb mockery of a broken heart ! 

Astrologer. I see him not, some cloud envelopes him ! 
Woman. He hath left the city then, and gone on ship- 
board ? 
Astrologer. I see him not, some cloud envelopes him ! 
Woman, What ! hast thou not a wond'rous glass that 
shews 



24 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Things past, or yet to come ? give me one look. 
That I may see his face so beautiful, 
Where'er it be ; or in that ghastly pit, 
Or smiling 'mid his comrades on the deck, 
While favouring breezes waft his blessed ship 
Far from the Plague, to regions of delight 
Where he may live for ever. 

Astrologer. Is your lover 

A tall thin youth, with thickly-clustering locks, 
Sable and glossy as the raven's wing ? 

Woman. Yes ! he is tall — I think that he is tall, 
His hair it is dark-brown— yes, almost black — 
Many call it black — you see him ? Does he live ? 

Astrologer. That pit containeth many beautiful J 
But thy sailor in his warlike garb doth lie 
Distinguish'd o'er the multitude of dead I 
And all the crowd, when the sad cart was emptied, 
Did weep and sob for that young mariner ; 
Such corpse, they thought, should have been buried 
Deep in the ocean's heart, and a proud peal 
Of thunder roll'd above his sinking coffin. 

PVoman, (distractedly.) Must I believe him ? off^ off 
to the pit ! 
One look into that ghastliness, — one plunge: 
None ever lov'd me but my gentle sailor, 
And his sweet lips are cold — I will leap down. 

[She rushes madly away."] 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 25 

Voice from the crowd. Aye, she intends to look before 
she leaps ; 
Well — life is life — I would not part with it 
For all the girls in Christendom. Forsooth ! 

2d Woman. Say! will my child recover from the 
Plague ? 

Astrologer. Child ! foolish woman ! now thou hast no 
child. 
Hast thou not been from home these two long hours, 
Here listening unto that which touch'd thee not, 
And left'st thou not thy little dying child, 
Sitting by the fire, upon a madman's knee ? 
Go home ! and ask thy husband for thy child ! 
The fire was burning fierce and wrathfuily, 
Its father knew not that the thing he held 
Upon his knee had life— and when it shriek'd, 
Amid the flames, he sat and look'd at it, 
With fixed eyeballs, and a stony heart. 
Unnatural mother ! worse than idiotcy 
To leave a baby in a madman's lap, 
And yet no fetters from infanticide 
To save his murderous hands. 

Woman, (rushing away. J O God ! O God ! 

Astrologer. Come forward thou with that most ghost- 
like face, 
Fit for a winding-sheet ! and if those lips 
So blue and quivering still can utter sounds, 
What would'st thou say ? The motions of thine eyes 



26 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Betoken some wild wish within thy heart. 

[A man comes forward, and lays down money be- 
fore the Astrologer. ,] 
Man, I trust my hour is near. I am alone 
In this dark world, and I desire to die. 

Astrologer, Thou shalt be kept alive by misery. 
A tree doth live, long after rottenness 
Hath eat away its heart : the sap of life 
Moves through its wither'd rind, and it lives on ; 
'Mid the green woods a rueful spectacle 
Qf mockery and decay. 

Man, I feel 'tis so. 

Thus have I been since first the Plague burst out, 
A term methinks of many hundred years ! 
As if this world were hell, and I condemn'd 
To walk through woe to all eternity. 
I will do suicide. 

Astrologer. Thou can'st not fool ! 

Thou lovest life with all its agonies : 
Buy poison, and 'twill lie for years untouch'd 
Beneath thy pillow, when thy midnight horrors 
Are at their worst. Coward ! thou can'st not die ! 

Man. He sees my soul ; a blast as if from hell 
Drives me back from the grave— I dare not die. 

\_He disappears among the crowd, and a young and 
beautiful lady approaches the Astrologer, ,] 
Lady. O man of fate ! my lovely babes are dead ! 
My sweet twin-babes ! and at the very hour 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 27 

Thy voice predicted, did my infants die. 

My husband saw them both die in my arms, 

And never shed a tear. Yet did he love them 

Even as the wretch who bore them in her womb. 

He will not speak to me, but ever sits 

In horrid silence, with his glazed eyes 

Full on my face, as if he lov'd me not — 

O God ! as if he hated me ! I lean 

My head upon his knees and say my prayers, 

But no kind word, or look, or touch is mine. 

Then will he rise and pace through all the rooms, 

Like to a troubled ghost, or pale-fac'd man 

Walking in his sleep. O tell me ! hath the Plague 

E'er these wild symptoms ? Must my husband perish 

Without the sense of his immortal soul ? 

Or, — bless me for ever with the heavenly words, — 

Say he will yet recover, and behold 

His loving wife with answering looks of love. 

Astrologer. Where are the gold, the diamonds and the 
pearls, 
That ere while, in thy days of vanity, 
Did sparkle, star-like, through the hanging clouds 
That shaded thy bright neck, that raven hair ? 
Give them to me ; for many are the poor, 
Nor shalt thou, Lady ! ever need again 
This mortal being's frivolous ornaments. 
Give me the gold you promis'd ; holiest alms 
Add not a moment to our number'd days, 



28 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

But the death of open-handed charity 

Is on a bed of down. Hast thou the gold ? 

Lady. All that I have is here. My husband gave 

me 
This simple necklace on my marriage-day. 
Take it ! Here is a picture set in gold. 
The picture I may keep. O ! that his face 
Were smiling so serenely beautiful, 
So like an angel's now ! — O sacred ring ! 
Which I did hope to wear within the tomb, 
I give thee to the poor, So may their prayers 
Save him from death for whose delightful sake 
With bliss I wore it, and with hope resign. 
Here, take them all, thou steward of the poor ; 
Stern as thou art, thou art a holy man ! 
I do believe thou art a holy man. 

Astrologer. Lady, thou need'st this wedding-ring no 

more ! 
Death with his lean and bony hand hath loosen'd 
The bauble from thy finger, and even now 
Thy husband is a corpse. O ! might I say 
Thy beauty were immortal ! But a ghost, 
In all the loveliness on earth it wore, 
Walks through the moonlight of the cemetery, 
And I know the shadow of the mortal creature 
Now weeping at my side. 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 29 

Enter Frankfort arid Wilmot close to the Astrologer. 

Frank. Amelia ! 

Lady. Ah me ! whose soft kind voice is that I hear ? 

Frank. Frankfort ! the playmate of thy infancy, 
The brother of thy womanhood, the friend 
Of thy dear husband, and the godfather 
Of thy sweet twins, heaven shield their innocence ! 

Lady. My babes are with their Saviour, and my hus- 
band 
Has gone with them to heaven. Lead, lead me hence ! 
For the seer's stern and scowling countenance 
Is more than I can bear. 

Frank. O grief ! to think 

That one so dear to heaven, by Christ belov'd 
For a still life of perfect sinlessness, 
Should, in such sad delusion, court the ban 
Of this most savage liar, sporting thus 
With the broken spirit of humanity. 

Astrologer. Welcome to London, storm-beat mariners 1 
The city is in masquerade to-day, 
And, in good truth, the Plague doth celebrate 
A daily festival, with many a dance 
Fantastic, and unusual melody, 
That may not suit your ears accustom'd long 
To the glad sea-breeze, and the rousing air* 
Of martial music on your armed decks. 



30 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Frank, to Wil. Is this some wild enthusiast whom the 
times 
Have sent unto the light, deluding others 
By his own strong delusions, or some fiend 
Thirsting for gold even in the very grave ? 

Wil. With what a cruel face he looks at us ! 

Frank. If an impostor in the shadow of death 
Endangering thus thy soul, vile wretch ! come down 
From thy tribunal built upon the fears 
Of agony, lest in thy seat of guile 
The Pest may smite thee ! Lean on me, Amelia ! 

Astrologer. Scoff not at God's own delegate, Harry- 
Frankfort ! 
What though the burning fever of the west 
Hath spar'd thy bronzed face and stately form, 
A mightier Power is here ; and he may smile, 
Ere the sun go down, upon thy bloated corpse. 
Not thus the maiden whom her sailor loves 
Despis'd me and my prophecies. Magdalene 
In snow-white raiment, like a maid that waik'd 
At the funeral of a maiden, she stood there, 
Even on the very stones beneath your feet, 
And ask'd of me her doom ; but on this earth 
Thy Magdalene's beauty must be seen no more. 

Frank, to Wil. The maid of whom he speaks lives far 
remote. 
In her father's cottage, near a silent lake 
Among the hills of Westmoreland, she breathes, 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 31 

Happy and well, her own sweet mountain air. 
Methinks I know bis face. That harden'd eye 
Gleams through the dimness of my memory, 
I know not when nor where. Amelia, come 
And I will lead thee home. I hear the crowd 
Saying that thy husband is alive : may heaven 
For many a year preserve you to each other. 
Say, is my mother living ? 

Lady t God forgive me> 

As I hope for my friend's forgiveness ! 
I know not if she lives ; for, oh ! this Plague 
Hath spread an universal selfishness, 
And each house in its own calamity 
Stands single, shut from human fellowship 
By sullen misery and heart- withering fear. 

Voice from the crowd. Look at the sorcerer ! how his 
countenance 
Is fallen !— 'tis distorted horribly I 
A shadow comes across it, like a squall 
Dark'ning the sea. 

Another voice. Even thus I saw a man 

This very morning stricken by the Plague, 
And in three hours he was a ghost. Disperse 
All ye who prize your lives ! soon will the air 

Be foul with his dead body. Let us away ! 

« 

[The crowd disperse^ 

Astrologer. God's hand is on me. In my cruel guilt 

I perish. Frankfort, I have never seen 



32 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Magdalene, the maid thou lovest. Look at me ; 
Dost not remember Francis Bannerman 
On board the Thunderer ? 

Frank. Pardon to thy soul ! 

Thou mad abuser of the gifts of heaven. 

Astrologer. Oh ! I am sick to death : my soul hath 
sunk 
At once into despair. 

Wil. What dreadful groans I — 

O fatal is the blast of misery, 
When it hath forc'd its way into the soul 
Of harden'd cruelty ! As when a storm 
Hath burst the gates of a thick-ribbed hold, 
And all its gloomy dungeons, in one moment, 
Are roaring like a hundred cataracts. 

Astrologer. I have shed blood. Roll, roll ye moun- 
tain waves, 
Above that merciless ghost that walks the sea 
After our ship for ever ! Shut thine eyes, 
Those glaring, bloodshot, those avenging eyes, 
And I will bear to feel thy skeleton- arms 
Twin'd round my heart, so that those eyes be shut I 
A ghost's wild eyes, that nothing can behold 
But the frighten'd aspect of its murderer ! 
Unconscious they of ocean, air, and Heaven, 
But fix'd eternally, like hideous stars, 
On a shrieking soul whom guilt hath doom'd to Hell ! 

Frank, to Wil. The mutineer is raving of his crime* 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 35 

Astrologer. Ha ! ha ! 'tis set within the ebb of flood 
Fifty feet high ; and the iron'd criminal 
With a frantic face stands dumb upon the scaffold. 
The priest is singing psalms ! — Curst be the eyes 
That see such idle shew — 'tis all gone by ! 
I fear not Hell, if that eternal Shape 
Meet me not there ! Pray, pray not for me Frankfort, 
For I am deliver'd over to despair, 
And holy words are nought but mockery 
To him who knows that he must dwell for ever 
In regions darken'd by the wrath of God. 
Lady. Let us leave this horrid scene ! 
Astrologer. O might I hear 

That sweet voice breathing of forgiveness ! 
Hush ! hush ! a voice once breath'd upon this earth 
That would have pleaded not in vain to Heaven, 
Even for a fiend like me. Thou art in Heaven, 
And knowest all thy husband's wickedness ; 
So hide thy pitying eyes, and let me sink 

Without thy intercession to the depths 

Of unimagin'd woe ! O Christ ! 1 die. 

Frank. Most miserable end ! an evil man 

Prostrating by a savage eloquence 

The spirits of the wretched — so that he 

Might riot on the bare necessities 

Of man's expiring nature — on the spoil 

Of the unburied dead ! Most atheist- like ! 

I know not how I can implore the grace 

Of God unto thy soul ! 

C 



34 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Astrologer. Eternal doom ! 

The realms of Hell are gleaming fiery bright.- 
What ghastly faces ! — Christ, have mercy on me! 

Lady. Wilt thou not lead me away, for I am blind ! 
O Frankfort come with me — the Plague hath struck 
My husband into madness — and I fear him ! 
O God ! I fear the man whom I do love ! 

Frank. All — all are wretched — guilty— dead or dying ? 
And all the wild and direful images 
That crowd, and wail, and blacken round my soul 
Have reconciPd me to the misery 
Sent from my mother's grave. An hour of respite 
Is granted me while I conduct thee home : 
Then will I seek that grave, and 'mid the tumult 
Of this perturbed city sit and listen 
To a voice that in my noiseless memory 
Sings like an angel. 

Lady. She is yet alive ! 

Frank. Thy voice is like the voice of Hope — Sweet 
friend, 
Be cheer'd, nor tremble so- — for God is with us. 

SCENE III. 

A Church-yard. — Two Females in mourning dresses sitting 
on a Tombstone. 

1st Lady. The door of the Cathedral is left open. 
Perhaps some one within is at the altar 
Offering up thanks, or supplicating heaven 
To save a husband dying of the Plague. 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 35 

If so, I join a widow's prayer to hers, 
Sitting on my husband's grave. 

2d Lady. One moment hush ! 

Methought I heard a footstep in the church 
As of one walking softly up the chancel. 
List —list ! I am not dreaming of a strain 
Of heav'nly music ? 'Tis a hymn of praise. 

[A voice is heard singing in the Cathedra!.'] 

1st Lady. A voice so heavenly sweet I once did hear 
Singing at night close to my bed, when I 
Was beyond hope recovering from the Plague. 
That voice hymn'd in my sleep and was a dream 
Framed by my soul returning unto life, 
A strain that murmur'd from another world. 
But this is earthly music : she must have 
An angel's face who through the echoing aisle 
So like an angel sings. 

2d Lady. 1 know that voice ! 

Last Sabbath evening, sitting on this stone, 
And thinking who it was that lay below it$ 
I heard that very music faint and far, 
Deaden'd almost into silence by the weight 
Of those thick walls. I listen'd with my heart 
That I might hear the dirge-like air again. 
But it did rise no more* and I believ'd 
'Twas some sweet fancy of my sorrowful soul, 
Or wandering breath of evening through the pillars 
Of the Cathedral sighing wildly by. 



36 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE, Act I. 

1st Lady, And sawest thou no one ? 

c 2d Lady. Yes ; I gently stole 

Into the solemn twilight of the church, 
And looking towards the altar, there I saw 
A white-rob'd Being on her knees. At first 
I felt such awe as I had seen a spirit, 
When, rising from the attitude of prayer 
The vision softly glided down the steps, 
And then her eyes met mine. But such sweet eyes, 
So filPd with human sadness, yet so bright 
Even through their tears with a celestial joy 
Ne'er shone before on earth. Even such methougbfc 
The Virgin- Mother's holy countenance, 
When, turning from her Son upon the cross, 
A gleam of heavenly comfort cheer'd the darkness- 
Of her disconsolate soul ! At once 1 knew 
That I was looking on the Maid divine 
Whom the sad city bless'd — whose form arises 
Beside the bed of death by all deserted, 
And to the dim eyes of the dying man 
Appears an angel sent from pitying heaven 
To bid him part in peace. I could have dropt 
Down on my knees and worshipp'd her, but silent 
As a gleam of light the creature glided by me, 
And e'er my soul recover'd she was gone. 

1st Lady. How weak and low does virtue such as hers 
Make us poor beings feel. 

2d Lady, Yet she is one 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 37 

Of frail and erring mortals, and she knew not 
In other days, to what a lofty pitch 
Her gentle soul could soar. For I have heard 
She was an only child, and in the light 
Of her fond parents' love was fostered, 
Like a flower that blooms best shelter'd in the house, 
And only plac'd beneath the open air 
In hours of sunshine. 

1st Lady, Could we now behold 

The glorious Being ? 

2d Lady, No : this hour is sacred ; 

We must not interrupt her. The dew falls 
Heavy and chill, and thou art scarce recover'd 
From that long sickness. — Let me kiss thee thus, 
Thou cold wet stone, — thou loveliest, saddest name, 
Ever engraven on a monument. 

[The scene changes to the interior of the Cathedral. Mag- 
dalene discovered on her knees at the altar.'] 

Magdalene. ; Father of mercies ! may I lift mine eyes 
From the holy ground that I have wet with tears, 
Unto the silence of the moonlight heavens 
That shine above me with a smile of love, 
Forgiveness, and compassion. There Thou art I 
Enthron'd in glory and omnipotence 1 
Yet from thy dwelling 'mid the eternal stars, 
Encircled by the hymning seraphim, 
Thou dost look down upon our mortal earth, 
And seest this weeping creature on her knees, 



3S THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

And hear'st the beatings of her lonely heart. 

If, in my days of sinless infancy, 

My innocence found favour in thy sight ; 

If in my youth, — and yet I am but young, — 

I strove to walk according to thy will, 

And reverenc'd my Bible, and did weep, 

Thinking of him who died upon the cross ; 

If, in their old age, I did strive to make 

My parents happy, and receiv'd at last 

Their benediction on the bed of death— 

Oh ! let me walk the waves of this wild world 

Through faith unsinking : — stretch thy saving hand 

To a lone castaway upon the sea, 

Who hopes no resting-place except in heaven. 

And oh ! this holy calm,— this peace profound, — 

That sky so glorious in infinitude,— 

That countless host of softly-burning stars, 

And all that floating universe of light, 

Lift up my spirit far above the grave, 

And tell me that my pray'rs are heard in Heaven 

I feel th' Omnipotent is Merciful ! 

\_A voice exclaims from an unseen person,'] 
O were my name remember'd in thy pray'rs ! 

Magd. (rising from her knees.) Did some one speak ? 

Voice. A sinful wretch implores 

That thou wilt stand between him and the wrath 
Of an offended God. 

Magd. Come to the altar. 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. . 39 

\_A man advances from behind a pillar, and kneels 
down at the altar.'] 

Stranger. I fear I cannot pray. My wicked heart, 
Long unaccustom'd to these bended knees, 
Feels not the worship that my limbs would offer ; 
— My lot is cast in hell. 

Magd. Repentance finds 

The blackest gulf in the wild soul of sin, 
And calms the tumult there, even as our Lord 
With holy hand did hush the howling sea. 

Stranger, Lady ! I am too near thy blessed side ; 
The breath of such a saint ought not to fall 
Into the hard heart of a murderer. 

Magd. Hast thou come here to murder me ? 

Stranger. Behold 

This cruel knife. 

Magd. The will of God be done ! 

Stranger. Rather than hurt one of those loveliest hairs 
That braided round thy pale, thy fearless brow, 
Do make thee seem an Angel or a Spirit 
At night come down from heaven, would I for ever 
Live in the dark corruption of the grave. 

Magd. My heart is beating — but I fear thee not — 
Thou wilt not murder me ? 

Stranger. What need'st thou fear ? 

Kneeling in those white robes, so like a Spirit, 
With face too beautiful for tears to stain, 
Eyes meekly raised to heaven, and snow-white hands 



40 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act b 

Devoutly folded o'er a breast that moves 

In silent adoration what hast thou 

To fear from man or fiend ? O rise not up ! 
So Angel-like thou seem'st upon thy knees, 
Even I can hope, while thou art at thy prayers. 

Magd. If thou cam'st hither to unload thy soul, 
Kneel down. 

Stranger. Sweet one ! I came to murder thee. 
With silent foot I traced thee to this church, 
And there, beyond that pillar, took my stand* 
That I might rush upon thee at the altar 
And kill thee at thy prayers. I grasp'd the knife — 
When suddenly thy melancholy voice 
Began that low wild hymn ! — I could not move ; 
The holy music made thee seem immortal ! 
And when I dared to look towards thy face, 
The moonlight fell upon it, and I saw 
A smile of such majestic innocence 
That long-lost pity to my soul return'd, 
And I knelt down and wept. 

Magd. What made thee think 

Of killing one who never injured thee ? 

Stranger. Th' accursed love of gold. 

Magd. Hath Poverty 

Blinded thy soul, and driven thee forth a prey 
To Sin who loves the gaunt and hollow cheeks 
Of miserable men ? Perhaps a cell 
Holds thy sick wife- 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 41 

Stranger. No ! I have sold my soul 

Unto the Evil One, nor even can'st Thou, 
With all the music of that heavenly voice, 
Charm the stern ear of hell. 

Magd, Alas, poor wretch ! 

What shakes thee so ? 

Stranger. Mid all the ghastly shrieking* 

Black sullen dumbness, and wild- staring frenzy, 
Pain madly leaping out of life, or fetter'd 
By burning irons to its house of clay, 
Where think you Satan drove me ? To the haunts 
Of riot, lust, and reckless blasphemy. 
In spite of that eternal passing-bell, 
And all the ghosts that hourly flock'd in troops 
Unto the satiated grave, insane 
With drunken guilt, I mock'd my Saviour's name 
With hideous mummery, and the holy book 
In scornful fury trampled, rent, and burn'd. 
Oh ! ours were dreadful orgies ! — At still midnight 
We sallied out, in mimic grave-clothes clad, 
Aping the dead, and in some church-yard danc'd 
A dance that ofttimes had a mortal close. 
Then would we lay a living Body out, 
As it had been a corpse, and bear it slowly, 
With what at distance seem'd a holy dirge, 
Through silent streets and squares unto its rest. 
One quaintly apparelPd like a surplic'd priest 
Led the procession, joining in the song ; — 



42 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

A jestful song, most brutal and obscene, 

Shameful to man, his Saviour, and his God. 

Or in a hearse we sat, which one did drive 

In masquerade-habiliments of death ; 

And in that ghastly chariot whirl'd along, 

With oaths, and songs, and shouts, and peals of laughter, 

Till sometimes that most devilish merriment 

Chill'd our own souls with horror, and we stared 

Upon each other all at once struck dumb. 

Magd. Madness ! 'twas madness all. 

Stranger. Oh ! that it were ! 

But, lady ! were we mad when we partook 
Of what we call'd a sacrament ? 

Magd. Hush ! hush !-— 

Stranger. Yes — I will utter it — we brake the bread, 
And wine pour'd out, and jesting ate and drank 
Perdition to our souls. 

Magd. And women too, 

Did they blaspheme their Saviour ? 

Stranger. Aye ! there sat 

Round that unhallow'd table beautiful Creatures, 
Who seem'd to feel a fiend-like happiness 
In tempting us wild wretches to blaspheme. 
Sweet voices had they, though of broken tones ; 
Their faces fair, though waxing suddenly 
Whiter than ashes ; smiles were in their eyes, 
Though often in their mirth they upwards look'd, 
And wept 5 nor, when they tore distractedly 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 43 

The garments from their bosoms, could our souls 
Sustain the beauty heaving in our sight 
With grief, remorse, despair, and agony. 
We knew that we were lost, yet would we pluck 
The flowers that bloom'd upon the crater's edge, 
Nor fear'd the yawning gulf. 

Magd. Why art thou here ? 

Stranger. Riot hath made us miserably poor, 
And gold we needs must have. I heard a whisper 
Tempting me to murder, and thy very name 
Distinctly syllabled. In vain I strove 
Against the Tempter — bent was I on blood ! 
But here I stand in hopeless penitence, 
Nor even implore thy prayers — my doom is seal'd. 

{He fdngs himself down before the altar."] 

Magd. Poor wretch ! I leave thee to the grace of 
God — 
Ah me ! how calmly and serenely smile 
Those pictured saints upon the holy wall, 
Tinged by that sudden moonlight ! That meek face 
How like my mother's ! So she wore her veil $ 
Even so her braided hair ! — Ye blessed spirits, 
Look down upon your daughter in her trouble, 
For I am sick at heart. The moonlight dies — • 
I feel afraid of darkness. Wretched man, 
Hast thou found comfort ? Groans his sole reply.— 
I must away to that sad Funeral. 



U THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

SCENE IV. 
The street. — A long table covered with glasses. — A party 
of young men and women carousing. 

Young Man. I rise to give, most noble President, 
The memory of a man well known to all, 
Who by keen jest, and merry anecdote, 
Sharp repartee, and humorous remark 
Most biting in its solemn gravity, 
Much cheer'd our out-door iable, and dispelPd 
The fogs which this rude visitor the Plague 
Oft breathed across the brightest intellect. 
But two days past, our ready laughter chaced 
His various stories ; and it cannot be 
That we have in our gamesome revelries 
Forgotten Harry Wentworth. His chair stands 
Empty at your right hand — as if expecting 
That jovial wassailer — but he is gone 
Into cold narrow quarters. Well, I deem 
The grave did never silence with its dust 
A tongue more eloquent ; but since 'tis so, 
And store of boon companions yet survive, 
There is no reason to be sorrowful ; 
Therefore let us drink unto his memory 
With acclamation, and a merry peal 
Such as in life he loved. 

Master of Revels. 'Tis the first death 

Hath been amongst us, therefore let us drink 
His memory in silence. 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 45 

Young Man, Be it so. 

[They all rise, and drink their glasses in silence .] 

Master of Revels. Sweet Mary Gray ! Thou hast a 
silver voice, 
And wildly to thy native melodies 
Can tune it's flute-like breath — sing us a song, 
And let it be, even 'mid our merriment, 
Most sad, most slow, that when its music dies, 
We may address ourselves to revelry, 
More passionate from the calm, as men leap up 
To this world's business from some heavenly dream. 

MARY GRAY'S SONG. 

I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow, 
When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was drest ; 

But the sang o' the bonny burn sounded like sorrow, 
Round ilka house cauld as a last simmer's nest. 

I look'd thro' the lift o' the blue smiling morning, 
But never ae wee cloud o' mist could I see 

On its way up to heaven the cottage adorning, 

Hanging white owre the green o' it's sheltering tree. 

By the outside I ken'd that the in was forsaken, 
That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor ; 

— O loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken, 
And the wild-raven eroak'd on the seat by the door ! 

Sic silence — sic lonesomeness, oh ! were bewildering 1 
I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep ; 



46 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children 

Dancing on to the "school-house just wakened frae sleep. 

I past by the school-house — when strangers were Coming, 
Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive ; 

Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming, 
For a night o' dark vapour can silence the Hive. 

I past by the pool whare the lasses at daw'ing 

Used to bleach their white garments wi' damn and din ; 

But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing,. 

And nae laughing rose loud thro' the roar o' the linn. 

I gaed into a small town— when sick o' my roaming — 
Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor and flute; 

? Twas the hour lov'd by Labour, the saft-smiling gloaming, — 
Yet the Green round the Cross-stane was empty and 
mute. 

To the yellow-flower'd meadow and scant rigs o' tillage 
The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen ; 

The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village, 
And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men! 

—Sweet Denholm ! not thus, when I lived in thy bosom, 
Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week ; 

Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him, 
And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek. 

Sic thoughts wet my eyne — as the moonshine was beaming 
On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white ; 

The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming, 
But the still finger tauld not the hour o' the night. 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 47 

The mirk-time past slowly in siching and weeping, 

I waken'd and nature lay silent in mirth ; 
Owr'e a* holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping, 

And heaven in beauty came down on the earth. 

The morning smiled on — but nae kirk-bell was ringing, 
Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill ; 

The kirk- door was shut, but nae psalm-tune was singing, 
And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill. 

I look'd owr'e the quiet o* Death's empty dwelling, 
The lav'rock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene, 

And fifty brown hillocks wi* fresh mould were swelling 
Owre the kirk-yard o' Denholm last simmer sae green. 

The infant had died at the breast o* its mither ; 

The cradle stood still near the mitherless bed; 
At play the bairn sunk in the hand o* its brither; 

At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead. 

Oh ! in spring time 'tis eerie, when winter is over, 
And birds should be glinting ow're forest and lea, 

When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover, 
And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree* 

But eerier far when the spring-land rejoices 

And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright, 

To hearken ! and nae whare hear sweet human voices! 
When man's soul is dark in the season o' light ! 

Master of Revels. We thank thee, sweet one ! for thy 
mournful song. 



48 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

It seems, in the olden time, this very Plague 

Visited thy hills and vailies, and the voice 

Of lamentation wail'd along the streams 

That now flow on through their wild paradise, 

Murmuring their songs of joy. All that survive 

In memory of that melancholy year 

When died so many brave and beautiful, 

Are some sweet mournful airs, some shepherd's lay 

Most touching in simplicity, and none 

Fitter to make one sad amid his mirth 

Than the tune yet faintly singing through our souls. 

Mary Gray. O ! that I ne'er had sung it but at home 
Unto my aged parents ! to whose ear 
Their Mary's tones were always musical. 
I hear my own self singing o'er the moor, 
Beside my native cottage, — most unlike 
The voice which Edward Walsingham has praxs'd, 

It is the angel- voice of innocence. 

2d Woman. I thought this cant were out of fashion now. 
But it is well ; there are some simple souls, 

JEven yet, who melt at a frail maiden's tears, 

And give her credit for sincerity. 

She thinks her eyes quite killing while she weeps. 

Thought she as well of smiles, her lips would pout 

With a perpetual simper. Walsingham 

Hath prais'd these crying beauties of the north, 

So whimpering is the fashion. How I hate 

The <Jim dull yellow of that Scotish hair ! 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 49 

Master of Revels. Hush ! hush ! — is that the sound of 
wheels I hear ? 

[The Dead-cart passes by, driven by a Negro.~\ 
Ha \ dost thou faint, Louisa ! one had thought 
That railing tongue bespoke a mannish heart. 
But so it ever is. The violent 
Are weaker than the mild, and abject fear 
Dwells in the heart of passion. Mary Gray, 
Throw water on her face. She now revives. 

Mary Gray. O sister of my sorrow and my shame ! 
Lean on my bosom. Sick must be your heart 
After a fainting-fit so like to death. 

Louisa, (recovering.) I saw a horrid demon in my 
dream ! 
With sable visage and white-glaring eyes, 
He beckon'd on me to ascend a cart 
Fill'd with dead bodies, muttering all the while 
An unknown language of most dreadful sounds. 
What matters it ? I see it was a dream. 
— Pray did the dead- cart pass ? 

Young Man, Come, brighten up 

Louisa ! Though this street be all our own, 
A silent street that we from death have rented, 
Where we may hold our orgies undisturb'd, 
You know those rumbling wheels are privileged, 
And we must bide the nuisance. Walsingham, 
To put an end to bickering, and these fits 



50 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Of fainting that proceed from female vapours, 
Give us a song ; — a free and gladsome song ; 
None of those Scottish ditties fram'd of sighs, 
But a true English Bacchanalian song, 
By toper chaunted o'er the flowing bowl. 

Master of Revels. I have none such ; but I will sing a 
song 
Upon the Plague. I made the words last night, 
After we parted : a strange rhyming-fit 
Fell on me ; 'twas the first time in my life. 
But you shall have it, though my vile crack' d voice 
Wo'nt mend the matter much. 

Many voices. A song on the Plague ! 

A song on the Plague ! Let's have it ! bravo ! bravo ! 

Song. 

Two navies meet upon the waves 

That round them yawn like op'ning graves ; 

The battle rages ; seamen fall, 

And overboard go one and all ! 

The wounded with the dead are gone ; 

But Ocean drowns each frantic groan, 

And, at each plunge into the flood, 

Grimly the billow laughs with blood. 

— Then, what although our Plague destroy 

Seaman and landman, woman, boy ? 

When the pillow rests beneath the head, 

Like sleep he comes, and strikes us dead. 

What though into yon Pit we go, 

Descending fast, as flakes of snow ? 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 51 

What matters body without breath ? 
No groan disturbs that hold of death. 

Chorus. 
Then, leaning on this snow-white breast, 
I sing the praises of the Pest I 
If me thou would' st this night destroy. 
Come, smite me in the arms of Joy. 

Two armies meet upon the hill; 
They part, and all again is still. 
No ! thrice ten thousand men are lying 
Of cold, and thirst, and hunger dying. 
While the wounded soldier rests his head, 
About to die upon the dead, 
What shrieks salute yon dawning light ? 
'Tis Fire that comes to aid the Fight I 
— All whom our Plague destroys by day, 
His chariot drives by night away. 
' And sometimes o'er a church -yard wall 
His banner hangs, a sable pall ! 
Where in the light by Hecate shed 
With grisly smile he counts the dead, 
And piles them up a trophy high 
In honour of his victory. 

Then leaning, SfC. 

King of the aisle ! and church-yard cell ! 
Thy regal robes become thee well. 
With yellow spots, like lurid stars 
Prophetic of throne-shattering wars, 
Bespangled is its night-like gloom, 
As it sweeps the cold damp from the tomb. 



52 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Thy hand doth grasp no needless dart, 
One finger touch benumbs the heart. 
If thy stubborn victim will not die, 
Thou roll'st around thy bloodshot eye, 
And Madness leaping in his chain 
With giant buffet smites the brain, 
Or Idiocy with drivelling laugh 
Holds out her strong-drugg'd bowl to quaff, 
And down the drunken wretch doth lie 
Unsheeted in the cemetery. 

Then leaning, fyc. 

Thou ! Spirit of the burning breath 
Alone deserv'st the name of Death ! 
Hide Fever ! hide thy scarlet brow ; 
Nine days thou linger'st o'er thy blow, 
Till the leach bring water from the spring, 
And scare thee off on drenched wing. 
Consumption ! waste away at will ! 
In warmer climes thou fail'st to kill, 
And rosy Health is laughing loud 
As off thou steal'st with empty shroud ! 
Ha ! blundering Palsy I thou art chill 1 
But half the man is living still ; 
One arm, one leg, one cheek, one side 
In antic guise thy wrath deride. 
But who may 'gainst thy power rebel, 
King of the aisle 1 and church-yard cell. 
Then leaning, fyc 

To Thee O Plague ! I pour my song, 
Since thou art come I wish thee long ! 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 53 

Thou strik'st the lawyer 'mid his lies* 

The priest 'raid his hypocrisies. 

The miser sickens at his hoard, 

And the gold leaps to its rightful lord. 

The husband, now no longer tied, 

May wed a new and blushing bride, 

And many a widow slyly weeps 

O'er the grave where her old dotard sleeps, 

While love shines through her moisten'd eye 

On yon tall stripling gliding by. 

'Tis ours who bloom in vernal years 

To dry the love-sick maiden's tears, 

Who turning from the relics cold, 

In a new swain forgets the old. 

Then leaning, fyc. 

Enter an old grey-headed Priest, 

Priest. O impious table ! spread by impious hands ! 
Mocking with feast and song and revelry 
The silent air of death that hangs above it, 
A canopy more dismal than the Pall ! 
Amid the church-yard darkness as I stood 
Beside a dire interment, circled round 
By the white ghastly faces of despair, 
That hideous merriment disturb'd the grave, 
And with a sacrilegious violence 
Shook down the crumbling earth upon the bodies 
Of the unsheeted dead. But that the prayers 
Of holy age and female piety 
Did sanctify that wide and common grave, 



$4 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

I could have thought that hell's exulting fiends 
With shouts of devilish laughter dragg'd away 
Some harden'd atheist's soul unto perdition. 

Several voices. How well he talks of hell ! Go on, old 
boy! 
The devil pays his tithes — yet he abuses him. 

Priest. Cease, I conjure you, by the blessed blood 
Of Him who died for us upon the Cross, 
These most unnatural orgies. As ye hope 
To meet in heaven the souls of them ye lov'd, 
Destroy'd so mournfully before your eyes, 
Unto your homes depart. 

Master of Revels. Our homes are dull — 
And youth loves mirth. 

Priest. O Edward Walsingham ! 

Art thou that groaning pale-fac'd man of tears 
Who three weeks since knelt by thy mother's corpse, 
And kiss'd the solder'd coffin, and leapt down 
With rage-like grief into the burial vault, 
Crying upon it's stone to cover thee 
From this dim darkened world ? Would she not weep, 
Weep even in heaven, could she behold her son 
Presiding o'er unholy revellers, 
And tuning that sweet voice to frantic songs 
That should ascend unto the throne of grace 
? Mid sob-broken words of prayer ! 

Young Man. Why ! we can pray 

Without a priest — pray long and fervently 
Over the brimming bowl. Hand him a glass. 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 55 

Master of Revels. Treat his grey hairs with reve- 
rence. 

Priest. Wretched boy ! 

This white head must not sue to thee in vain ! 
Come with the guardian of thy infancy, 
And by the hymns and psalms of holy men 
Lamenting for their sins, we will assuage 
This fearful mirth akin to agony, 
And in its stead, serene as the hush'd face 
Of thy dear sainted parent, kindle hope 
And heavenly resignation. Come with me. 

Young Man. They have a design against the hundredth 
Psalm. 
Oh ! Walsingham will murder cruelly 
.** All people that on earth do dwell." 
Suppose we sing it here — I know the drawl. 

Master of Bevels, (silencing him, and addressing the 
Priest.) Why cam'st thou hither to disturb me thus ? 
I may not, must not go ! Here am I held 
By hopelessness in dark futurity, 
By dire remembrance of the past, — by hatred 
And deep contempt of my own worthless self, — 
By fear and horror of the lifelessness 
That reigns throughout my dwelling, — by the new 
And frantic love of loud-tongued revelry, — 
By the blest poison mantling in this bowl, — 
And, help me Heaven ! by the soft balmy kisses 
Of this lost creature, lost, but beautiful 



56 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

Even in her sin ; nor could my mother's ghost 
Frighten me from this fair bosom. 'Tis too late ! 
I hear thy warning voice— I know it strives 
To save me from perdition, body and soul. 
Beloved old man, go thy way in peace, 
But curst be these feet if they do follow thee. 

Several Voices. Bravo ! bravissimo ! Our noble presi- 
dent ! 
Done with that sermonizing — off — off — off. 

Priest. Matilda's sainted spirit calls on thee ! 

Master of Revels, (starting distractedly from his seat) 
Didst thou not swear, with thy pale wither'd hands 
Lifted to Heaven, to let that doleful name 
Lie silent in the tomb for evermore ? 

that a wall of darkness hid this sight 
From her immortal eyes ! She my betrothed 
Once thought my spirit lofty, pure, and free, 
And on my bosom felt herself in Heaven. 

What am I now ? (looking up) — O holy child of light, 

1 see thee sitting where my fallen nature 
Can never hope to soar ! 

Female Voice. The fit is on him. 

Fool ! thus to rave about a buried wife ! 
See ! how his eyes are fix'd. 

Master of Revels. Most glorious star ! 

Thou art the spirit of that bright Innocent ! 
And there thou shinest with upbraiding beauty 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 57 

On him whose soul hath thrown at last away 
Not the hope only, but the wish of Heaven. 
Priest. Come, Walsingham ! 
Master of Revels. O holy father ! go. 

For mercy's sake, leave me to my despair. 

Priest. Heaven pity my dear son. Farewell ! fare- 
well ! 

[The Priest walks mournfully away.'] 
Young Man. Sing him another song. See how he 
turns 
His eyes from yon far Heaven to Mary's bosom ! 
The man's in love. Ho ! Walsingham ! what cheer ? 
Master of Revels, (angrily.) I hate that Irish slang — 
it grates my soul. 
Mary Gray. O Walsingham ! I fear to touch the 
breast 
Where one so pure has lain ! Yet turn thine eyes 
Towards me, a sinful creature, that thy soul 
May lose the sight of that celestial phantom 
Whose beauty is a torment. List to me. 

Master of Revels. Here, Mary ! with a calm delibe- 
rate soul 
I swear to love thee ! with such love, sweet girl ! 
As a man sunk in utter wretchedness 
May cherish for a daughter of despair. 
O maudlin fools ! who preach of Chastity, 
And call her Queen of Virtues ! In the breast 
Even of this prostitute (why should I fear 



58 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I. 

That word of three unmeaning syllables?) 
In spite of all that's whisper'd from the grave, 
I now will seek, and seeking I will find 
The open-ey'd sleep of troubled happiness. 

Mary Gray. All names are one to me. I often love 
The imprecations of brutality, 
Because, with vain contrition for my sins, 
I feel that I deserve them all. But thou 
Killest me with thy pitying gentleness, 
Wasting sweet looks, and words of amity, 
On a polluted creature drench' d in shame. 

Young Man. Had yon old dotard, with his surplice 
on, 
Emblem of his pretended sanctity, 
And sanctimonious visage common to all 
The hypocritic brotherhood of priests, 
Staid but a little longer, I had read him 
A lecture on the Christian's outworn creed. 
This is rare season for the jugglery 
Of these church-mountebanks ! 

Master of Revels. Fool ! hold thy peace ! 
Thou in thy heart hast said there is no God, 
Yet knowest thyself — a liar. 

Young Man, (starting up furiously,) On his knees, 
Upon his knees must Edward Walsingham 
Implore forgiveness for these villanous words, 
Or through his heart this sword will find a passage, 
Even swifter than the Plague. 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE: 59 

Master of Revels. Upon my knees ! 

Fierce gladiator ! dost thou think to daunt me 
By that red rapier reeking with the blood 
Of nerveless, hot-brain'd, inexperienc'd boys 
Whom thou hast murder'd ? Stand upon thy guard, 
And see if all the skill of fencing France, 
Or thy Italian practice, cowardly bravo ! 
Can ward this flash of lightning from thine eyes. 

Enter Frankfort and Wilmot, who rush between them, 

Frank, Madmen I put up your swords. What, Wal- 
singham ! 
The captain of the Ocean Queen, engag'd 
In brawls on shore. 

Master of Revels, Aye ! 'tis a foolish quarrel, 
And may have foolish ending : But he spake 
With rude licentious tongue irreverently 
Of a white head that since my mother's death 
Hath been to me the holiest thing on earth ; 
And woe ! to its blasphemer. 

Young Man whispers, St Martin's Fields, 

At twelve o'clock. There is good moonlight for us. 

Master of Revels. 'Tis a right hour. I'll meet thee 
at the elm -tree 
Nam'd from the royal deer. At twelve o'clock ! 

[The party breaks up.~\ 
What news from sea ? 



60 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act I„ 

Frank, All well 

Master of Revels. Why look so pale ? 

Before an action fearless men look pale, 
And fling away their smiles ; but, once engag'd, 
They scoff at death with gleesome mockery. 
No deck was e'er so strew 'd with hideous slaughter, 
As the wide floor of this Plague-conquer'd city, 
Therefore look up— -our colours still are flying — 
Will Frankfort strike them ? 

Frank. Yes ! I am a coward I 

I have for hours been wandering through this city, 
And now I stand within a little furlong 
Of the house that was my mother's. I have linger'd 
In places quite remote — have travers'd streets 
That led not thither — yea ! have turn'd my face 
Away from the imag'd dwelling of my parent, 
Glad to put off the moment that might tell me 
That which with agony I long to know. 
Besides, mayhap, I am intruding here. 
Good evening Walsingham— to you fair dames 
Farewell. Come, Wilmot, o'er yon roof I see 

The vane upon the house-top, where 

Walsingham. Your mother 

On Thursday was alive. 

Frank. God bless thee, Walsingham ! 

On Thursday — and 'tis yet but Sabbath-night. 
She must be living still ! Said they the Plague 
Destroys so suddenly ? In three small hours ? 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 61 

Three days and nights contain a frightful sum 
Of fatal hours. The Plague doth ask but three- 
She may be sick — dead — buried — and forgotten. 



END OF THE FIRST ACT. 



THE 



CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. 

The street opposite a house adjoining Aldgate church-yard. 

Frank. Hush, Wilmot ! while I say one little pray'r. 
There stands the house — I see it in my soul, 
Though yet mine eyes dare not to look on it. 
— Let me lean on thee — hear'st thou aught within ? 

WiL It is the hour of rest: I nothing hear ; 
But the house methinks is slumb'ring happily 
In the clear moon-light. 'Tis a lovely night, 
Beauty without these walls, and peace within. 

Frank. Wears it the look of a deserted dwelling ? 

WiL Its silence seems of sleep and not of death. 

Frank. O Wilmot ! sure the moon shines ruefully, 
On these black windows faintly ting'd with light ! 
I see no difference between these dark walls, 
And yonder tomb-stones —they both speak of death. 

WiL Be comforted. 



6*4 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Frank. List ! Wilmot ! hear'st thou aught ? 

Methinks it was my mother's voice within 
Singing a dirge-like hymn. Hear'st thou a voice ? 

Wil. Grief mocks itself with fancied sounds like these ; 
There was no voice. 

Frank. O let it breathe again, 

And all the world will seem alive to me. 
— O God ! the silence of this lifeless street, 
Where all the human dwellings stand like tombs 
Empty or nll'd with corpses, seems collected 
Round this one house, whose shadowy glimmering walls 
Bear down my soul in utter hopelessness. 
Oh ! 'tis a sad, sad wreck. Mark how the dust 
Lies on th' untrodden steps ! and yet I see 
Footprints of one ascending. As I live, 
I hear a footstep in my mother's chamber. 
Alight! alight! see where a light is moving 
As from an apparition through the house. 

{The door opens, and the Priest who appeared in the 
first Act comes into the street. ~\ 

Frank. Pale death is in his troubled countenance. 
The house is falling from me, and the street 
Is sinking down— down — down. I faint — Support me. 

The Priest. {To Wil. while they support Frank.] 
At a sad hour the sailor hath return'd. 
Would he were yet at sea. 

Frank. I hear thy voice, 

And know that I indeed am motherless. 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 65 

Priest Blessed are they who lived in the Lord, 
And in the Lord did die. 

Frank. Amen — amen ! 

Hath little William gone with her to Heaven ? 

Priest They died few hours apart. Methought I 
saw 
The angelical mother smiling up the sky 
With that delightful infant on her breast, 
More like a spirit that had come from Heaven 
To waft away the child to Paradise, 
Than a human soul departing from this earth. 
Frank. Soaring in beauty to immortal bliss ! 
But away from him who held them in his heart, 
An everlasting presence of delight 
'Mid the dim dreary sea. 

Priest. Weep, weep my son, 

I wish to see thee weep. 

Frank. O why should tears 

Be shed unto the blest and beautiful 
By us poor dwellers in the woeful shades 
Of mortal being ? 

Wil. Thou art deadly pale ! 

Be not asham'd to weep upon my breast. 
I have seen thee weeping for that sweet child's sake 

When haply he was dancing in his mirth 

Frank. Dancing in his mirth ! The lovely child is 
dead. 
All all his innocent thoughts like rose-leaves scattered, 

E 



66 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

And bis glad childhood nothing but a dream ! 

I feel his last kiss yet (weeping. J 

Wil. I also weep — 

For I too am his brother, though his face 

Was only vision'd sweetly in my soul 

With its small features 
Frank. Sudden happiness 

Comes o'er my grief ! Time and this world appear 

Mere shadows, and I feel as if I stood 

Close to my mother's side ! — O mournful weakness ! 

The realms of Heaven are stretching far away ; 

My soul is fetterd to the earth ; the grave 

Cries with a voice that may not be gainsay'd, 

And mortal life appears eternity, 

Since she I lov'd has perish'd. 

■Priest. Some, my son, 

Would bid thee trust in time, the friend of sorrow ; 
But thou hast nobler comforters ; nor would I 
Bid thee place hope in blind forgetfulness. 
I know that there is taken from thy soul 
Something that must return no more — a joy 
That from the shore breath'd on thee far at sea, 
Filling thy heart with home ; and sweeter far 
Arose that feeling o'er the ocean-calm 
Than airs balsamic breathing through the ship 
From odorous island unseen 'mid the waves. 
Frank. O kind old man ! Thy sweet and solemn 
voice, 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 67 

Fit organ for such peaceful images, 

Breathes a calm reconcilement through my soul. 

These silvery locks made white by time and sorrow, 

Yet in their reverend beauty meekly smiling 

At what hath made them so, most silently 

Inspire my heart although yet young in grief, 

With resignation almost like thine own. 

Priest. Son ! hast thou strength to look upon that 
sight 
Where human loveliness seems perfected 
By the last smile that will not pass away ? 

Frank. They yet then are unburied ? 

Priest. Even this day, 

At the hour when yonder bell would have been tolling, 
In other times than these, for morning-service, 
Her spirit went to heaven — your brother died 
Some little hours before. 

Frank. And in that house 

My mother and her little son lie dead i 
— Yes ! I have strength to look on them, — to kiss 
Their cold white faces — to embrace their bodies 
Though soul be gone still tenderly beloved, — 
To gaze upon their eyelids, though the light 
Must never break in beauty from below them, 
And, with the words of fondest agony, 
Softly to whisper love unto the ear 
That in its frozen silence hears me not. 

Priest. I will conduct thee to them. 



68 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Frank, At the hour 

When she was dying, in our vessel's barge 
Was I approaching to the shore, — the oars 
Sounded as they were muffled on the black 
And sluggish water ! 'Twas a gloomy hour, 
Yet, dark as it was, I ne'er expected this. 
One visit will I pay them e'er I go. 
Oh ! I have many a heavy thought to utter 
Which God alone must hear. 

Priest. We will pray for thee, 

Standing uncover'd in this silent street. 
And when we think thy soul is satisfied 
With the awful converse holden with the dead, 
We will come to thee for a little while, 
And sit with thee beside their bodies. God 
Will not forsake thee in this last distress. 

Frank. I dare not enter, though I yearn to lie 
For ever by their side. The very beauty 
Which in their sleeping faces I shall see 
With its fair image holds me motionless. 
A gulf of darkness lies beyond that door ! 
— O tell me, reverend father ! how they died, 
And haply then I may have strength to go 
And see them dead : — Now 'tis impossible. 
Wilmot ! why do you weep — be comforted. 

Priest. Though from the awful suddenness of their 
death 
The Plague hath surely stricken them, yet they lie 

11 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 69 

Unlike the other victims of that pest 
In more than mortal beauty. Their still faces, 
When last I saw them, in the moonlight lay, 
Like innocence sleeping in the love of heaven, 
Love mix'd with pity. Though a smile was there, 
It seem'd a smile ne'er meant for human eye, 
Nor seem'd regarding me ; but there it shone, 
A mournful lustre filling all the room 
With the silence of its placid holiness. 

Frank. Lovelier than when alive they might not be. 
Tell how they died. 

Priest. Last night I sat with her 

And talk'd of thee ; — two tranquil hours we talk'd 
Of thee and none beside, while little William 
Sat in his sweet and timid silent way 
Upon his stool beside his mother's knees, 
And, sometimes looking upwards to her face, 
Seem'd listening of his brother far at sea. 
This morning early I look'd in upon them 
Almost by chance. There little William lay 
With his bright hair and rosy countenance 
Dead 1 though at first I thought he only slept. 
" You think," his mother said, " that William sleeps I 
" But he is dead ! He sicken'd during the night, 
** And while I pra/d he drew a long deep sigh, 
" AncLbreath'd no more !" 

Frank. O sweet and sinless child ! 

Go on— go on ! 



70 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Priest. I look'd on her who spake, 

And I saw something in her tearless eyes 
More than a mother's grief — the cold dull gleam 
Of mortal sickness hastening to decay. 
She ask'd me not to leave her, and I staid 
fill humanJielp or comfort by that saint 
No more was needed. But a gentler death 
A Christian never died. Methought her soul 
Faded in light, even as a glorious star 
Is hidden 'mid the splendours of the morn. 

Frank. I hope she wept not long and bitterly 
For her poor sailor's sake. O cruel wind 
That kept our ship last night far out at sea ! 

Priest. " In life I was most happy in my son," 
She said, " and none may know the happiness 
" His image yields me at the hour of death." 
■ — I found that she had laid upon her bed 
Many of those little presents that you brought her 
From your first voyage to the Indies. Shells 
With a sad lustre brighten'd o'er the whiteness 
Of these her funeral sheets 5 and gorgeous feathers, 
With which, few hours before, her child was playing, 
And lisping all the while his brother's name, 
Form'd a sad contrast with the pale, pale face 
Lying so still beneath its auburn hair. 
Two letters still are in her death-closed hand 
And will be buried with her. One was written 
By your captain, after the great victory 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 71 

Over De Ruyter, and with loftiest praise 

Of her son's consummate skill and gallantry 

During the battle, told how he had saved 

The lives of two young noble Hollanders, 

By leaping overboard amid a storm. 

The other, now almost effaced by tears, 

Was from yourself, the last she had from you, 

And spoke of your return. God bless thee boy ! 

I am too old to weep — but such return 

Wrings out the tears from my old wither'd heart. 

Frank, O 'tis the curse of absence that our love 
Becomes too sad — too tender — too profound 
Towards all our far-off friends. Home we return 
And find them dead for whom we often wept, 
Needlessly wept when they were in their joy ! 
Then goes the broken-hearted mariner 
Back to the sea that welters drearily 
Around the homeless earth ! 

Priest. Thy mother waits 

Her son's approach — in beauty and in peace. 

Frank. I go into her chamber — fear me not. 
I will not rush into the holy presence 
With frantic outcry, and with violent steps 
Most unbecoming 'mid the hush of death. 
But I, with footsteps gentle as the dew, 
And with suspended breath, will reach her bed j 
There silent as she is, so will I be, 



72 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Lying beside my mother in her sleep 

With my head upon her bosom — cold — cold — cold. 

SCENE II. 
A little room in a lonely street in the suburbs. — Isabel 
sitting with the Bible on her knees. — Enter Magda- 
lene. 

Isabel. My gracious lady bless that face again ! 
Here have I sat this long, long wretched day 
Quite by myself, until I thought with horror 
You never might return. 

Magd. O needless fears ! 

Sister ! thy anxious heart will never learn 
To think more on thyself, and less on others. 
Yet to thy friends thine are endearing faults 
And make thee lov'd the more. 

Isabel. How pale you look ! 

Wearied, and pale, and languid —sit down here 
My gentle mistress ! Blest is charity 
From ordinary hands, but sure from thine 
It must drop on the children of the poor, 
Like dew from heaven upon th' unconscious lambs-. 

Magd. I will sit down a while. I have been kept 
From home, beyond my promis'd hour, by sad 
And unexpected duty. Frankfort's mother, 
And her sweet little son, this morning died. 



-Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 73 

Isabel. Both dead ! I might have known it from that 

face. 
Magd. I have prepared their bodies for the grave, 
And with such flowers as in a desert- square 
Of the city I could gather, are they drest, 
Sleeping together sound and silently. 

Isabel. O what will that kind-hearted sailor think, 
"When he returns from sea ! 

Magd, I shudder for him, 

His love was so profound. 

Isabel, O matchless pair ! 

In love, in beauty, and in innocence 
So long united, now your orphan hearts 
Will closer cling in your calamity ; 
As I have seen upon a leafless bough 
Two young doves sitting silent, breast to breast. 

Magd. Happy may he be for ever — may his ship 
Linger in friendly port, or far at sea 
Be chain'd in long, long calm, so that he comes not 
Unto this city of the Plague ! He lives, 
And long will live — that thought is happiness 
Enough for me. I see him on the deck, 

Walking and speaking O good Isabel ! 

A bright and sunny vision often breaks 
Upon my praying soul, even at the bed 
Where death is busy, and with contrite heart 
I strive to dim it : Angel-like it is, 



74 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act 11. 

But oh ! too dear in its humanity, 

And, like a spirit lingering round a tomb, 

It ever haunts my desolated bosom. 

Isabel. Cherish that image — he will yet return 
To live with thee for ever. 

Magd. Noble spirit ! 

I thought I lov'd him well when we were happy, 
And liv'd together 'mid all happy things, 
As of our bliss partaking. Death has come 
And in affection left us parentless ; 
And now it seems that all the love I bore 
My father and my mother has been pour'd 
Into that mild, that brave, that generous heart. 
Aye ! what will he say indeed when he returns ! 

Isabel. Thy parents both are dead — one month ago 
They died before thine eyes, yet where on earth 
Might we behold a countenance array'd 
In the light of an immortal happiness 

Magdalene ! like to thine ? 

Maclg. Sometimes I fear 

1 have a stony heart. 

Isabel. The hush thou feel'st 

Will breathe through Frankfort's soul on his return, 
And you will speak together of the dead 
As of some gentle beings, who have gone 
To sojourn in a far-off happy land 
Which one day ye will visit. 

Madg. \ I know well 



5 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 75 

That they who love their friends most tenderly 
Still bear their loss the best. There is in love 
A consecrated power, that seems to wake 
Only at the touch of death from its repose 
In the profoundest depths of thinking souls. 
Superior to the outward signs of grief, 
Sighing or tears, — when these have past away, 
It rises calm and beautiful, like the moon 
Saddening the solemn night, yet with that sadness 
Mingling the breath of undisturbed peace. 

Isabel. With that sublime faith ye will both be happy. 

Madg. How bright and fair that afternoon returns 
When last we parted. Even now I feel 
Its dewy freshness in my soul ! Sweet breeze ! 
That hymning like a spirit up the lake 
Came through the tall pines on yon little isle 
Across to us upon the vernal shore 
With a kind friendly greeting. Frankfort blest 
The unseen musician floating through the air, 
And smiling said, " Wild harper of the hill ! 
" So may'st thou play thy ditty when once more 
" This lake I do revisit." As he spoke, 
Away died the music in the firmament, 
And unto silence left our parting hour. 
No breeze will ever steal from nature's heart 
So sweet again to me. 

Isabel. Can'st thou not think 

Of e'er again returning to the vale 



76 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Where we were born. Should Frankfort come from sea 

Thou art his own betrothed : two such souls 

Are not by God destin'd to live apart 

Even on this earth, and e'er you go to heaven 

To join the blessed dead whom we deplore, 

They would regard your life of sanctity 

From their bright courts with joy, and your still walks 

Through vale and forest by those holy watchers 

Be kept from earthly ill. 

Madg, Whate'er my doom, 

It cannot be unhappy. God hath given me 
The boon of resignation : I could die, 
Though doubtless human fears would cross my soul, 
Calmly even now ; — yet if it be ordain'd 
That I return unto my native valley 
And live with Frankfort there, why should I fear 
To say I might be happy — happier far 
Than I deserve to be. Sweet Rydal lake ! 
Am I again to visit thee ? to hear 
Thy glad waves murmuring all around my soul ? 

Isabel. Methinks I see us in a cheerful groupe 
Walking along the margin of the bay 
Where our lone summer-house 

Madg. Sweet mossy cell ! 

So cool — so shady — ^silent and compos'd ! 
A constant evening full of gentle dreams ! 
Where joy was felt like sadness, and our grief 
A melancholy pleasant to be borne. 



Scene II.* THE CITY -OF THE PLAGUE. 77 

Hath the green linnet built her nest this spring 
In her own rose-bush near the quiet door ? 
Bright solitary bird ! she oft will miss 
Her human friends : Our orchard now must be 
A wilderness of sweets, by none belov'd. 

Isabel. One blessed week would soon restore its beauty, 
Were we at home. Nature can work no wrong. 
The very weeds how lovely ! the confusion 
Doth speak of breezes, sunshine, and the dew. 

Madg. I hear the murmuring of a thousand bees 
In that bright odorous honeysuckle wall 
That once enclos'd the happiest family 
That ever lived beneath the blessed skies. 
Where is that family now ? O Isabel, 
I feel my soul descending to the grave, 
And all these loveliest rural images 
Fade, like waves breaking on a dreary shore. 

Isabel. Even now I see a stream of sunshine bathing 
The bright moss-roses round our parlour window ! 
Oh ! were we sitting in that"room once more ! 

Madg. 'Twould seem inhuman to be happy there 
And both my parents dead. How could I walk 
On what I used to call my father's walk, 
He in his grave ! or look upon that tree 
Each year so full of blossoms or of fruit 
Planted by my mother, and her holy name 
Graven on its stem by mine own infant hands ! 

Isabel, It would be haunted, but most holy ground. > 



78 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Madg. How tenderly did Frankfort love my parents ! 
From the first hour we met, his image seem'd 
In the still bosom of our family 
The silent picture of an absent friend ! 
— Methinks I hear his voice while he recites 
Some fragment of a poem, or wild song 
About the troubles of the pitiless sea. 
Most other sailors have loud jocund voices; 
But his was always low and somewhat sad 
As if he bore within his soul the sound 
Of that wild-raging world, the memory 
Of battle and of shipwreck, and of friends 
By death ta'en from him or captivity. 

Isabel, Much hath that brave man suffer' d, yet he 
pities 
All them who mourn—- nor on himself bestows 
So much as one sad dream. 

Magd, Dost thou remember 

That melancholy but delightful strain 
He framed one summer evening in our cell, 
When that fair orphan came with streaming eyes, 
To tell us that the lady of the castle 
Marie Le Fleming on her death-bed lay ? 

Isabel. I recollect it well. 

Magd, The sorrowful 

Still love to muse on all distressing things, 
And sure her death was so. Repeat the dirge 
Composed while she was parting from the earth. 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 79 

E'er yet thy voice begin, I see the land, 

The beautiful land of mountains, lakes, and woods, 

All glimmering with a melancholy light 

Which must unto mine eyes endure for ever. 

O Isabel ! when o'er this doleful city 

Rises the snow-white tower of Grassmere church 

Go on, — go on, for I begin to rave. 

DIRGE. 

The fairy on Helvellyn breathes 

Into the diamond's lustre fair, 
And in that magic gleam she wreathes 

The dew-drops round her glittering hair. 

The driving blast — the dimming rains 

May there disturb its secret place ; 
But evermore the stone retains 

The image of that loveliest face. 

Into our lady's radiant eyes 

Joy look'd when she was yet a child, 
And there 'mid shades of sickness lies 

Beauteous as when at first she smil'd. 

— 'Tis said there is a wond'rous bird 

That ne'er alights to fold her wings, 
But far up in the sky is heard 

The music which the creature sings. 

On plumes unwearied, soft and bright 
She floateth still in hymning mirth, 



80 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

For ever in her native light ! 
Unstain'd by any touch of earth ! 

Our lady's soft and gentle feet 

O'er earth in mortal motion swim, 
But angels come from heaven to meet 

The incense of her holy hymn. 

—On yonder pool so black and deep, 

In her green cradle rock'd to rest, 
Behold the water-lily sleep ! 

Serenely, with untroubled breast ! 

Alike unto that fearless flower 

The arrowy sleet — the dewy balm — 
The sunlight's smile—the tempest's lower— 

For her's is an eternal calm. 

Across our gracious lady's bed 

A blast hath come as from the grave, 

But on her pillow rests her head 
Calm as that lily on the wave, 

— From heaven fair beings come at night 
To watch o'er mortals while they sleep ; 

Angels are they, whose sole delight 
It is to comfort those who weep. 

How softly on the dreamer's head 
They lay their soft and snow-white hands ! 

One smile! then in a moment fled, 
They melt away to happier lands. 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 81 

I wake J and lo ! my lady fair 

Is smiling near the orphan's bed — 
With all the charms the living wear 

Join'd to the beauty of the dead. 

— O perfect is a plaintive tune 

When slowly sung at fall of even, 
In some wild glen beneath the moon, 

When silence binds the earth and heaven ! 

Remembrance rises faint and dim 

Of sorrows suffer'd long ago, 
And joy delighteth in the hymn 

Although it only breathe of woe. 

Our lady's spirit it is pure 

As music of departed years ! 
On earth too beauteous to endure, 

So sad — so wild — so full of tears I 

Magd. Methinks I see the splendid funeral 
O'erspreading Grassmere church-yard. Vain parade \ 
Lost on the thousand weepers standing there, 
With the image of that corpse so beautiful 
Lying all dress'd with flowers before their souls. 
The ancient castle from that dismal day 
Seem'd going fast to ruin — the oak-wood 
Is black and sullen 'mid sunshiny hours, 
And oft upon the green and primrose bank 
Of her own Rydal lake, the voice of grief 

F 



82 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Comes with the little waves, a peaceful dirge 
Of Nature o'er the lady whom she lov'd. 

Isabel. Nature most gently led her unto rest. 
And as her eyes grew dim, there swam before them 
Sweet images of all that most she lov'd 
Breath'd from the heavens and earth. O different far 
Must be our doom ! Hark ! hark the nightly shrieks I 
At the same stated hour ! those thundering wheels ! 
Ah me ! I never hear that hideous noise, 
But the deep hush of Grassmere vale — the tower 
Chiming through morning-silence, and the lake 
Reflecting all the heavens- 

Magd. Of this no more 

My gentle Isabel ! Can we speak so long 
About ourselves, and Frankfort's mother lying 
A corpse ! It seems as if we had not loved her. 
O we are selfish beings even when we think 
That we have wean'd our souls from earthly joys. 

Isabel. When is the funeral ? 

Magd. At twelve o'clock 

To-night will that delightful old man come, 
To see them decently carried to the grave ; 
And I will in that small procession walk 
Close to her dear, dear head. She was belov'd 
By all who saw her once — so beautiful ! 
So meekly beautiful ! so sadly fair ! 
So happy in her solemn widowhood ! 

11 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 83 

Isabel. You will return at midnight ? 

Magd. Yes — kind heart ! 

And for one single day I must refrain 
From visiting the sick. A trying day 
Hath this been to me. O ye holy Ones, 
With saints united in beatitude, 
*Look down upon us in this lonely room 
Sitting in the dimness of mortality 
With sorrow in our souls ! — My Isabel, 
I may not chaunt with thee our evening hymn, 
For I am faint. Already have I pour'd 
My heart in holy song unto the ear 
Of pitying Jesus — sing it by thyself: 
In silence will I join the sacred strain. 

hymn. 

The air of death breathes through our souls , 

The dead all round us lie ; 
By day and night the death-bell tolls 

And says " Prepare to die." 

The face that in the morning sun 

We thought so wond'rous fair, 
Hath faded, ere his course was run, 

Beneath its golden hair. 

I see the old man in his grave 

With thin locks silvery-grey ; 
I see the child's bright tresses wave 

In the cold breath of the clay. 



84 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

The loving ones we lov'd the best, 

Like music all are gone ! 
And the wan moonlight bathes in rest 

Their monumental stone. 

But not when the death-prayer is said, 

The life of life departs ; 
The body in the grave is laid, 

Its beauty in our hearts. 

At holy midnight voices sweet 

Like fragrance fill the room, 
And happy ghosts with noiseless feet 

Come bright'ning from the tomb. 

We know who sends the visions bright, 

From whose dear side they came ! 
— We veil our eyes before thy light, 

We bless our Saviour's name ! 

This frame of dust, this feeble breath 

The Plague may soon destroy; 
We think on Thee, and feel in death 

A deep and awful joy. 

Dim is the light of vanish'd years 

In the glory yet to come ; 
O idle grief ! O foolish tears ! 

When Jesus calls us home. 

Like children for some bauble fair 

That weep themselves to rest ; 
We part with life— awake ! and there 

The jewel in our breast! 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 85 



SCENE III. 
The open street. — A crowd of men and women gathered 
together in a tumultuous manner, 

1st Man. There goes a notable fool ! The moon is 
yonder 
Shining like the sun, but with a tamer light, 
And yet with blazing oil-torch puffing forth 
Its noisome vapours on each passenger, 
This greasy varlet scours along the street, 
Fixing his puny stars where'er he stops, 
In many a long line twinkling sleepily, 
What is the use of these same lamps ? The Plague 
Is not afraid of light, and kills by day, 
By moonlight, star-light, lamp-light, every light. 
Is it that we may see each others faces 
More clearly as we pass ? Now on my soul 
I have not seen one face for these three months 
That spoke not of the grave. This very wretch, 
With long lean shrivell'd shanks, look'd as he pass'd 
Like some well season'd dry anatomy 
Escap'd from Surgeons'-hall. The Plague, my girl, 
Hath spoil'd the beauties of good London town, 
And, (let me see thy face below this lamp) 
Good faith ! they're not so useless as I thought — 
Had'st thou been Eve, Adam had ne'er been tempted. 



36 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

2d Man, Aye ! folks may jest, and with right heavy 
hearts. 
For my own part, I don't expect this Plague 
Will change its quarters, long as it has left 
A single man alive. As for the moon 
That shines so brightly, have you ever heard 
What the Astrologers say of that moon ? 

Woman. Tel), tell us what the Astrologers have said. 
2d Man, They say it is the moon that sends the 

Plague. 
1st Man. The man in the moon ? then is he chang'd 
indeed 
Since days of yore. 1 have seen him when a boy 
Crouching beneath his sticks most woefully, 
Condemn'd to bear the load in punishment 
Of Sabbath-breaking. Now he walks erect 
With a huge sweeping scythe, and mows us down, 
Us poor unhappy Londoners, like grass 
By the acre. 

3d Man. Yea ! before the Plague burst out, 
All who had eye sight witness'd in the city 
Dread Apparitions, that sent through the soul 
Forebodings of some wild calamity. 
The very day-light seem'd not to be pour'd 
Down from the sun — a ghastly glimmering haze 
Sent upwards from the earth ; while every face 
Look'd wan and sallow gliding through the streets 
That echoed in the darkness. When the veil 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 87 

Of mist was drawn aside, there hung the sun 

In the unrejoicing atmosphere, blood-red, 

And beamless in his wrath. At morn and even, 

And through the dismal day, that fierce aspect 

Glar'd on the City, and many a wondering groupe 

Gaz'd till they scarce believ'd it was the sun. 

— Did any here behold, as I beheld, 

That Phantom who three several nights appeared, 

Sitting upon a cloud-built throne of state 

Right o'er St Paul's Cathedral ? On that throne 

At the dead hour of night he took his seat, 

And monarch-like stretch'd out his mighty arm 

That shone like lightning. In that kingly motion 

There seem'd a steadfast threat'ning — and his features, 

Gigantic 'neath their shadowy diadem, 

Frown'd, as the Phantom vow'd within his heart 

Perdition to the City. Then he rose, 

Majestic spectre ! keeping still his face 

Towards the domes beneath, and disappear'd, 

Still threatening with his outstretch'd arm of light, 

Into a black abyss behind the clouds. 

Voice from the crowd. I saw him — on the very night 
I saw him, 
When first the Plague broke out. 

3d Man. And saw ye not 

The sheeted corpses stalking through the sky 
In long long troops together — yet all silent, 
And unobservant of each other, gliding 



88 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Down a dark flight of steps that seem'd to lead 
Into the bosom of eternity ? 

Voice from the crowd. Go on, go on — tell us of what 
thou sawest : 
Thou art a scholar, and thy tongue can speak 
Even like a written book. What sawest thou else ? 

3d Man. I have seen hearses moving through the sky ! 
Not few or solitary, as on earth 
They pass us by upon a lonesome road. 
But thousands, tens of thousands mov'd along 
In grim procession — a long league of plumes 
Tossing in the storm that roar'd aloft in heaven, 
Yet bearing onwards through the hurricane, 
A black, a silent, a wild cavalcade 
That nothing might restrain ; till in a moment 
The heavens were freed, and all the sparkling stars 
Look'd through the blue and empty firmament ! 
Voice. They all foretold the Plague, 
3d Man. And I have seen 

A mighty church-yard spread its dreary realms 
O'er half the visible heavens — a church-yard blacken'd 
"With ceaseless funerals that besieg'd the gates 
With lamentation and a wailing echo. 
O'er that aerial cemet'ry hung a bell 
Upon a black and thund'rous looking cloud, 
And there at intervals it swung and toll'd 
Throughout the startled sky ! Not I alone, 
But many thousands heard it — leaping up, 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 89 

Not knowing whether it might be a dream, 

As if an earthquake shook them from their beds, 

Nor dar'd again to sleep. 

1st Woman. Cease, cease that jargon 

About sights seen in the sky. The city shews 
Phantoms, and hearses, and church-yards enow, 
Without recourse to visions in the heaven. 

Voice. Heed not that foolish wretch— go on, go on, 
I love to feel my hair stand up on end, 
And my heart beat till I can hear its sound. 

3d Man. Dost not remember that black stormy night, 
When all at once the hurricano ceased, 
And silence came as suddenly as light 
Bursting on darkness ? In that awful hush 
The City like a panting monster lay, 
Fearful of danger which it knew not of, 
Yet felt that it was near. Then overhead, 
As from a floating cloud, a mighty voice 
Came like the roar of ocean " Death ! death ! death !" 
A thousand echoes wail'd the giant-cry 
Faintlier and faintlier — till once more the storm 
Rose on the night, and that portentous voice 
Left the pale city quaking in its fear. 

2d Woman. His words are like a dream— more terrible 
These sights and sounds from the disastrous sky 
Than all the real terrors of the Plague. 

1st Man. Come woman ! with that wild and coal- 
black eye, 



90 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Let us hear thee speak ! no idle dreamer, thou ! 
I like that smile of scorn and bitterness. 

1st Woman. I cannot say that I dislike the Plague. 
Good faith ! it yields rare harvest to the poor 
Who are industrious, and will sit by night 
Round beds where richer servants dare not come. 
Yet after all 'tis not the Plague that kills, 
But Fear. A shake of the head— a sapient look — 
Two or three ugly words mutter'd through the teeth — ■ 
Will go long way to send unto his grave 
A soldier who has stood fire in his day. 
And as for women, and the common run 
Of men — for instance mercers, lawyers' clerks, 
And others not worth mentioning, they die, 
If a sick-nurse only look upon her watch 
To know the hour o' the night ? What matters it ? 
In a hundred years — all will be well again. 

2d Woman. You must have seen rare sights in your 
time, good woman ! 

1st Woman. I have seen for two months past some 
score i' the day 
Give up the ghost. No easy business 
To lay so many out. When they paid well, 
I did my office neatly — but the poor 
Or niggardly, I put them overhand 
In a somewhat careless way— gave them a stretch 
Or two — down with their eye-lids— shut their mouths. 
And so I left them. 'Twas but slovenly work. 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 91 

2d Woman. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — Why wert thou so kind, 
brave wench ! 
Unto the lazy cruel-hearted rich ? 
They owe at least one kindness to the poor. 
Let them feel what still they preach of — gratitude. 

1st Woman. I know not what the gentry and nobility 
Think of this way of burial. In they go, 
Beggar and banker, porter, gentleman, 
The cinder-wench and my white-handed lady 
Into one pit. O rare ! rare bed-fellows ! 
There they all lie in uncomplaining sleep. 

2d Woman. Can'st give some little history of the dead ? 
1st Woman. Yes — I could make your pale face paler 
still 
Did I choose to be talkative — but one 
Short history of a wretch who died to-day 
I will give — and his name was Rivington. 
Eternal curses blast that hateful name ! — 
Curst be he even within the crowded grave ! 
And may his lingering spirit feel the pressure 
Of a hundred corpses weighing down its life, 
In agony and torment down to hell. 

2d Woman. Come for the story —you may spare your 
curses. 
God wot ! you waste your breath. The gentleman 
Is dead-^— I'll warrant that his soul's ta'en care of. 

1st Woman. I was sent for to a house that was plague- 
struck, 



92 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

To lay out two small children. Rivington ! 
Methought I knew that name. Could it be he 
Whom twenty years before I knew too well 
Among the towers of Oxford, where he studied 
As some said for the church ; a worthy son 
Of such a mother — no less worthy child 
Of such a rare nurse — Oxford and the church ! 
At once I knew the caitiff, as he lay 
Dying alone 'mid his dead family, 
Whose blue- swollen faces had a look in them 
Of their most wicked father. Had they liv'd, 
They had been evil— no good could have come 
From blood of his — it had a taint in it. 
I had forgot to mention that his wife 
Was likewise lying dead. Poor soul ! her face 
Was beautiful, and seem'd the face of sorrow . 
Rather than of death. Much no doubt had she suffer'd, 
Married for ten long years to such a husband ! 
W 7 hen I had done my duty,, " Where's your gold ?" 
I ask'd this master of a family, 
Who with a fix'd and stupid face was sitting 
Idle in his chair. " Where ruffian ! is your gold?" 
But, to make short a rather tedious story, 
He knew me — knew that I was come to curse him, 
To howl my dying curses in his ear, 
Nor would I listen to his cowardly voice 
Imploring mercy and forgiveness. Curse him ! 
2d Woman. What was his crime ? 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 93 

1st Woman. We were three sisters once 

Happy and young, and some thought beautiful, 
And by our cheerful industry supported 
Our palsied mother. But this demon came, 
And by his wheedling arts and tempting gold, 
Unknown to one another we all fell 
Into sin, and shame, and sorrow. Our sick mother 
Died of a broken heart — one sister died 
In childbed — and consumption bred of grief 
Soon took away another. I alone, 
Reserv'd for farther woe and wickedness, 
Liv'd on — but yet methinks this one small day, 
Those two blest hours in which I saw him dying, 
That minute when the rattle in his throat 
Clos'd his vile tongue for ever, and the moment 
When one convulsive gasp left him a corpse, 
Gave me my share of earthly happiness, 
And life feels life thus sweeten'd by revenge. 

2d Woman, Felt you no little twinging of remorse, 
Thinking on days when I suppose you lov'd him ? 

1st Woman. 1 never lov'd him, and he 'knows what 
love 
He bore to me. Both had our punishment ! 
I for my folly, vanity and pride, 
Base love of gold (for then that love was base 
Which now is right, and just, and necessary), 
Have led a houseless life of infamy, 
Despis'd, curst, fondled, starv'd. He for his lust, 



S>4 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Unnumber'd lies, and fearless cruelty, 
Hath seen his children die before his face, 
And his wife perish, stricken into death 
'Mid the screaming of insanity. Remorse 
Disturbed his ruffled bed and dug his grave, 
While she, within whose breast he often lay, 
With the count'nance of a fury glar'd upon him, 
And shook the dying caitiff in the pangs 
Of pain and of despair. The hand of God 
Was there in me its worthless instrument. 

2d Woman. Let's go to merry-making — right good 
friends 
We two shall make. Left naked in the street 
Was I, a little infant by its mother 
Expos'd to death. I in a poor-house past 
My hated, hateful youth ; my womanhood 
Like thine was chiefly past where I began 
My chance-existence-^in the street ; and now 
Without a friend, food, money or a home, 
What care I for the Plague ? Let us go my friend 
To merry-making. 

1st Man. All this is mighty well, 

But leads to nothing. Wilt thou rob a church 
Good master Pale- face ? Wilt thou rob a church, 
And share 'mid this our ragged company 
The general spoil ? 

2d Man. Why any place but a church ! 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 95 

1st Man. I Ha ! thou'rt a scrupulous robber ! and the 
sound 
Of these psalm-singing, shrill- voiced choristers 
Would frighten thee gliding through the moonlight-aisle. 
Troth man ! 'tis well worth fighting with a ghost 
For such a booty. Silver candlesticks 
Gold gilt are standing idle on the altar,' 
Themselves a boy-load ! and they say a Grozier 
Most richly ornamented may be found 
In a lucky nook, — no despicable bauble ! 
But ten times worth such trifles, think thou Jesuit ! 
On the bright vessels for communion-service, 
Of massy silver, which the surpliced priest 
With both hands gives unto the trembling grasp 
Of young communicants. When melted down 
They will make us all as rich as Crcesus. Come ! 
Let us off to the Cathedral. 

2d Man. I for one 

Stay where I am, or seek some other duty. 
'Tis absolute sacrilege. I could not sleep 
If I had lent a hand to rob a church. 
I go not there to pray — neither will I go 
To steal — 'tis little short of sacrilege. 
However I am not obstinate, and 'tis pity 
To part from pleasant company — suppose 
We break into some house that is plague-struck. 
Its tenants probably are dead, — or dying, 



96 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

And will make small resistance — to kill such 
Cannot be well called murder. 

Several voices. Agreed ! Agreed ! 

\_A wild cry is heard, and a half-naked man comes 
raving furiously along."] 

2d Man. 'Tis the mad Prophet ! for God's sake let 
him pass. 

Maniac. Woe ! woe ! unto the city ! woe ! woe ! woe 1 
The Prince of the air his palace fills to-day 
With wicked spirits in their guilt destroy'd. 
Repent ! repent ! before the red-eyed Wrath 
Wither you to ghosts. His bloody scymitar 
Is waving o'er the city. On your knees 
Fall down ye wild blasphemers !— -'Tis too late, 
Woe ! woe ! unto the city ! woe ! woe ! woe I 

2d Man. We neither rob a church nor house this 
night. 

Maniac. Repent ye miserable troop of ghosts. 

2d Man. We cannot repent — fear binds us fast to guilt. 

Maniac. Another month, and I am left alone 
In the vast city, shrieking like a demon ! 
Condemned to an eternal solitude 
Peopled but by ghosts, that will not will not speak ! 
All gliding past me, wan and silently, 
With curses in their eyes, and death-like frost 
Breathed from their bony hands, whose scornful fingers 
Keep pointing at me rooted to the stones, 
That yield no sound to comfort my stopp'd heart. 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 97 

Crowd, O what a dreadful dream envelopes him I 
Maniac. My sins have brought this judgment on the 
city. 
One sin there is that may not be forgiven, 
And that was mine : so from the lurid sky 
Down came the mighty and the fearful God, 
And like a flash of lightning wither'd up 
The hearts of his poor creatures. I alone 
Am doom'd to live for ever in the depths 
Of lifeless silence, which my madden'd shrieks 
In vain will startle, like a lonely bird 
Wailing unheeded in a vast sea- cave. 
— O Jesus ! thou Destroyer ! once again 
Thy voice of thunder stuns me. Woe ! woe ! woe ! 
— The streets do run with blood ! and groans of death 
As with an earthquake shake the toppling walls. 
Down falls yon spire — huzza ! down, down to hell. 
Why stare ye so, ye dumb and pale-fac'd ghosts ? 
O for a whirlwind's wing to sweep you away 
Like broken clouds, or the autumnal leaves 
Hissing through the cold heart of a dreary wood. 
— I hear the voice ! — woe ! woe ! unto the city — woe ! 
woe ! woe ! 

\He rushes away shrieking*] 
1st Man. O base and wretched cowards ! by the 
shrieks 
Of a poor madman scar'd and terrified ! 
Thus they who take their conscience by the beard, 



98 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

And laugh to scorn the voice that cannot lie, 
At their own shadows start ! now palsy-stricken 
By the ravings of a drivelling idiot. 

1st Woman. See where heaven dawns on hell ! Even 
in the path 
Of that tormented demon, onward floats 
An Angel ! Mercy following Despair ! 

2d Woman. Let us fall down and worship her. 

[Enter Magdalene dressed in white, with a Bible in her 
hand.~\ 

1st Woman. It is the lovely Lady no one knows, 
Who walks through lonesome places day and night, 
Giving to the poor who have no earthly friend ; 
To the dying comfort — to the dead a grave ! 
I am a harden'd sinner — yet my heart 
Softens at that smile, and when I hear her voice 
I feel as in my days of innocence. 

[ They kneel down before her.~\ 

Magd. Rise up my sisters and my brothers rise ! 

Voice. How graciously she speaks unto the poor ! 
Angels have walk'd this earth — if thou art one, 
And that voice tells thou art, whate'er its words, 
Let us still kneel before thee ! — sinful we ! 
And in our lives most desperately wicked ; 
Yet child of heav'n ! believe us when we say 
Religion hath not wholly left our hearts. 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. oo 

Magd. O piteous spectacle ! by my very birth 
1 am a creature sinful as yourselves ! 
And if my life have freer been from guilt, 
I owe the blessing of my innocence 
To Him whose blood can change the hue of sin 
Into the whiteness of thrice-driven snow. 

c ld Woman. We are too wicked now to hope for par- 
don. 

Magd. Ye are not lost, but think that ye are so, 
And therefore will not hope. Cheer up your souls ! 
Calmness will lead to hope, and hope to faith, 
And faith unto that awful happiness 
That walks unquaking through the shades of death, 
Triumphant over nature's agony. 

2d Woman. Walk not away ! speak to us yet awhile ! 

Madg. Return unto your homes all ye that own 
A home — a blessing even when desolate. 
If young or old or sick be pining there, 
Think on the comfort of the Comforter. 
If all have perish'd, turn your eyes to Him 
Who dwells in Zion, and you need not fear 
The dreadful stillness of unlook'd for death. 
I will pray with you ; ne'er forget your prayers ! 
Even now you felt how sweet it was to bless 
Me a pool' sinful creature, since you think 
That nature fram'd me kind and pitiful. 
Pray unto Him who lov'd you on the cross ! 
Evening and morn and noon-day worship Him, 



100 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

And what although your homes be desolate ! 
Your hearts will sing for joy — even as the lark 
'Mid evening sunshine hymning up the sky, 
Forgetful that since morn the spoiler's hand 
Had torn her low-built nest. 

2d Woman, O that the Plague 

Would strike me dead before thou disappear — 
For when thy heavenly face hath pass'd away, 
What shall protect me from the ghastly looks, 
The broken voice of guilt and agony ? 

Madg. Promise to pass this night in prayer. 

Several voices. We promise, 

1st Man. She is indeed most beautiful ! O misery 
To think that heaven is but a dream of fools ! 
Why gaze I on her thus, as if I felt her 
To be immortal ! Something touch'd my soul 
In that sad voice which earth can ne'er explain, 
Something quite alien to our troubled being, 
That carried on my soul into the calm 
Of that eternal ocean ! — Can it be ? 
Can a smile— a word— destroy an atheist's creed ? 
— Ha ! this is mockery ! 

2d Woman. See how she waves 

Her snow-white hand from which a blessing falls 
On all the crowded street ! How silently 
The starry midnight passes o'er our heads ( 
How gladsome the pure moonlight ! Oh ! that angel 
Hath by her beauty and her innocence 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 101 

Won the great God of mercy to look down 
On the children of despair. We part in peace ! 

SCENE IV. 
Frankfort sitting beside the bodies of his mother and 
tittle brother. — The Priest and Wilmot standing at 
some distance. 

Frankfort. Thou need'st not look with such sad eyes 
on me. 
Beloved old man I on that countenance 
I now have gaz'd so long, that its deep calm 
Hath sunk into my heart. 

Priest. The comforter 

Hath come to thee in solitude. 

Frank. When left 

With this still image I confess my voice 
Called upon her loud and franticly 
To start up into life. Even then a smile 
Came o'er her face, a sweet upbraiding smile 
That silently reprov'd my senseless grief. 
O look upon her face ! eternity 
Is shadow'd there ! a pure immortal calm 
Whose presence makes the tumult of this world 
Pass like a fleeting breeze, and through the soul 
Breathes the still ether of a loftier climate ' 

Priest. Many sweet faces have I seen in death, 
But never one like this. Death beautifies 



102 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Even the stern face of guilt, and I have seen 
The troubled countenance of a sinful man 
Breath'd over, soon as life had pass'd away, 
With a soft delicate, shade,^as from the wing 
Of Innocence returning to shed tears 
Over the being she had lov'd in youth. 
But here lies perfect beauty ! her meek face 
Free as that child's from any touch of sin, 
Yet shining with that loftier sanctity 
That holds communion with the promis'd heavens. 
Frank. (To Wilmot.) Kind friend ! thou weep'st ! 
Such tears will not disturb 
Her sleep ! see where they trickle silently 
Down that unmoving cheek that feels them not, 
As if they flowed from eyes that may not weep. 

Wil. My friend ! may I kneel down and kiss her 

cheek. 
Frank. Start not at feeling that fair face so cold ! 
I often said that I would bring my friend 
To see my mother — Lo ! I have fulfill'd 
My promise ! There she lies ! 

Wil. As I touch'd her lips 

Methought her dead face smiPd a blessing on me ! 

Frank. Take thou this ringlet of her auburn hair: 
'Tis a sweet auburn, mingled though it be 
With the soft silvery-grey ! and be it blended 
With these thick- clustering curls of undim'd joy, 
In beauty parted from the radiant head 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. - 103 

Of this delightful child — and for my sake 
Keep them for ever ! 

Priest. If deserv'd by love 

Part of these holy relics should be mine. 

Franjc. Aye ! aye ! — Now may I ask whose pious care 
Hath plac'd these death-flowers here ! Methinks 1 read 
In the fair disposition of these flowers 
The delicate language of a female hand, 
Not unforgetful of the skill that cheer'd 
Its hours* of happier task, even in the sad 
Graceful adornment of the dead ! One hand, 
One hand alone on all the earth was worthy 
To place these flowers — but it is far away ! 

Priest. What if that hand it were ? 

Frank. Nay ! mock me not. 

Haply thou heardest not my words aright. 

Priest. One hand alone thou rightly said'st was worthy 
To fix that wreath. The fingers of that hand 
Stirr'd not the braided hair that they did touch, 
Nor mov'd one fold upon the funeral sheet, 
So that the flowers they shed seem'd dropping there 
In a dewy shower from heaven ! Thy Magdalene 
It was indeed whose fingers dress'd the dead. 

Frank. Magdalene ! and in the midst of this fell 
Plague ! 
Mine is a most mysterious destiny. 
— O spirit of my mother ! pardon me 
Though with thy dead body lying in my sight 



104 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

My soul with pangs returns unto the living, 
If Magdalene indeed be with the living ! — 
That smile hath life in it. O blest old man, 
Thou art indeed the servant of the Lord ! 

Priest. She lives ! and even now is on her way 
To attend thy mother's funeral ! 

Frank. Speak — speak — 

Priest. She is an orphan. 

Frank, O my heart is dry ! 

Were Magdalene's self a corpse I could not weep. 

Priest. I need not tell at length the mournful tale. 
Three happy weeks with their delighted daughter 
They walk'd the city — and the day was fix'd 
For their return unto their native mountains. 
But the Plague came 

Frank. [Passionately.) They surely were not thrown 
In the face of pity weeping all in vain, 
Together thrown into that ghastly pit 

Priest. 'Twas easy then to find a place of rest 
In consecrated ground, and they were buried, 
The very day they died, in a quiet spot 
Even not without its beauty, at the foot 
Of a small tree that Nature's self had planted, 
In a city church-yard standing quite alone. 

Frank. And where was Magdalene on the burial-day ? 

Priest. I must not speak to thee of that one day ! 
But it is past and gone, and Magdalene 
Is living. This is all I dare to utter. 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 105 

There is an air that memory may not breathe, 
And black oblivion hath her sacred ground 
Guarded for aye by woe and misery. 

Frank. Buried in a city 'mid a crowd of tombs ! 
Those floating locks blench'd by the ocean storms 
Through many a perilous midnight — and that head 
On which the snows of age were gently falling 
Through the kush'd air of peace — both in the earth ! 
— Spoke they not of a burial-place far off? 

Priest. They did— but with a smile. 

Frank. It matters not. 

— There is a little church-yard on the side 
Of a low hill, that hangs o'er Rydal-lake, 
Behind the house where Magdalene was born. 
Most beautiful it is ; a vernal glade 
Enclos'd with wooded rocks ! where a few graves 
Lie shelter'd, sleeping in eternal calm. 
Go thither when you will, and that green spot 
Is bright with sunshine. There they hop'd to lie ! 
And there they often spoke to Magdalene 
Of their own dying day. For death put on 
The countenance of an angel in the place 
Which he had sanctified. I see the spot 
Which they had chosen for their sleep — but far, 
O far away from that sweet sanctuary 
They rest, and all its depth of sunny calm. 
Methinks my Magdalene never dare return 
To her native cottage. 



106 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Priest. No ! she only smil'd 

When I implor'd her to forsake the city ; 
Then said she would not leave her parents' bones. 
Fain had she each day visited your mother, 
But fear'd to bring infection— — 

Frank. O my mother ! 

Forgive me heaven ! I had not sure forgotten 
That I am listening to thee by her coffin ! 
My Magdalene's care was vain — she came at last 
As these sad death-flowers tell. 

Priest. Not in some spot 

Apart from death, in deathlike loneliness 
Doth Magdalene dwell. Throughout the livelong day, 
And many a livelong night, for these three months 
Hath she been ministering at the dying bed 
From which, with an unnatural cowardice, 
Affection, ardent in the times of joy, 
Had fled,— perhaps to stumble o'er the grave. 
— What ! though thy Magdalene heretofore had known 
Only the name of sorrow, living far 
Within the heart of peace, with birds and flocks, 
The flowers of the earth, and the high stars of heaven. 
Companions of her love and innocence $ 
Yet she who in that region of delight, 
Slumber'd in the sunshine, or the shelter'd shade s 
Rose with the rising storm, and like an angel 
With hair unruffled in its radiance, stood 
v Beside the couch of tossing agony ! 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 107 

As undisturbed as on some vernal day 
Walking alone through mountain-solitude, 
To bring home in her arms a new-yean'H Iamb 
Too feeble for the snow ! 

Frank. I wonder not ! 

Its beauty was most touching, and I loved 
The bright and smiling surface of her soul ; 
But I have crazed with adoration 
Upon its awful depths profoundly calm, 
Seen far down shadowing the sweet face of heaven. 

Priest. Many think she bears a charm against the 
Plague j 
And they are not deceiv'd. A charm she hath, 
But hidden not in ring or amulet, 
Sleeping in the quiet; of her sinless soul. 
Some think she is a spirit — many look 
With tears of sorrow on a mortal creature 
Whom death may steal away — but all agree 
That a thing so piteous, kind, and beautiful, 
Did never walk before upon this earth. 

{The door opens, and Magdalene enters.] 

Priest, Behold the blessed one of whom we speak .' 

Magdalene, (seeing Frankfort and Wilmot kneeling 
with their faces on the bed.) 
Haply some sorrowing friends unknown to me ! 

Frank, (rising.) Magdalene ! my holy Magdalene ! 

Magd, [throwing herself down beside him,~\ 
Hush ! hush ! my Frankfort ! thus I fold one arm 



108 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Round thy blest neck, and with the other thus 
I touch the silent dead ! 

Frank. O Magdalene ! 

'Tis a wild night of bliss and misery, 

Magd. We both are orphans. 

Frank. Hush ! I know it all. — > 

An angel's arms are round me — No ! a mortal's — 
A mortal thing sublimed and beautified 
By woes that would have broken many a heart. 
In thy embrace what do I care for death ! 
In ev'ry breathing of thy holy bosom 
I feel contentment, faith, and piety ; 
Nor can the shadow of this passing world 
Breathed o'er thy face of perishable beauty 
Bedim thy holy spirit — it is bright, 
Nor seems to heed that gushing flood of tears. 

Priest to Wilmot. Let us retire. The hour is draw- 
ing near, 
Fixed for the funeral. 

Wtlmot. Heaven in mercy sent 

That angel with her dewy voice, and eyes 
More dewy still, to stand beside the grave, 
And shew my friend how beautiful in heaven 
His mother now must be ! That silent smile 
To resignation might convert despair ! 

[Priest and Wilmot retire*] 



Scene V. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 109 



SCENE V. 

A church-yard — midnight — a clear moon and serene shy — 
a new dug grave close to the church-wall, on which are 
leaning the Sexton and his assistant. 

Sexton. 'Tis a decent job enough ; for a beginner 
You handle your spade in no unpromising way, 
And when our church-yard business revives, 
(Confound that pit with its great ugly mouth — 
'Tis the ruin of the trade) — you'll make my boy 
A very pretty grave-digger. But hark-ye ! 
When standing good five feet below the sod, 
Keep thine eyes open, and do'nt fling the gravel 
Into my face, thou screech-owl. Stretch thyself 
Up boldly like the son of a grave-digger, 
And form the bank above thee neat and trim. 
1 wish to have some credit in my graves 5 
And even although the kinsfolk be poor judges, 
And mind these things but little, I have an eye, 
A grave-digger's eye, that loves to a nicety 
To see a trench drawn for its own dear sake. 
—Why art thou shivering there thou Aspen-leaf? 

Boy. I never liked to walk through a church-yard. 
And now at the very dead hour o* the night, 
This standing overhead within a grave 
Hath made me colder than an icicle, — 
Aye, numb as any grave-stone of them all. 



110 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

I would not care to dig a grave in a field 
Out in the country, and by good day-light *, 
But to keep poking in a deep black-hole, 
In the middle of a pavement of grave-stones, 
With such a ghostlike moon above one's head, 
And flinging out, instead of good plain pebbles, 
Still yellow- grinning and worm-eaten skulls ! 
— 'Tis shocking work. 

Sexton, Fie ! you disgrace your trade 

You jackanapes ! an ancient noble trade. 
I'll get some bungler of a village-sexton, 
Some bell-ringer well vers'd in psalmody 
To bury thee like a dog, and lay thy coffin 
With the wrong end to the headstone. Out on thee ! 

Boy. I think old man ! with both feet in the grave 
As one may say 

Sexton. Ho ! ho ! advice thou parrot ! 
With both feet in the grave ! I will be singing 
Over my work for many a year to come, 
When thou, and chicken-hearted birds like thee, 
Will all be caged. Death loves a grave-digger, 
And would not hurt a hair upon his head. 
As for the Plague he is afraid of us — 
With a mattock and a shovel o'er my shoulder 
He looks at me, and passes to such game 
As thou, and smooth-fac'd maidens like to thee. 

Boy. Didst ever see the lady and her child 
W 7 hose grave we have been digging— for if so ? 



Scene V. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Ill 

And yet hast felt no pity at thy work, 

Thou would'st not scruple for a yellow King Charles 

To bury a Christian lying in a trance. 

Sexton. Six years ago, I buried her good husband, 
As proper brave a man as e'er was laid 
Under the turf. I have known the family 
Three generations, and I loved them all. 
But where's the use of whimpering like a child 
That never saw a grave ? Yet by my spade, 
I think if I had any tears to shed 
I would waste them all upon this very mould ! 
For a sweeter lady never walk'd to church 
Nor stepp'd across a grave-stone. She is in heaven ! 
And he who thinks so well may dig her grave, 
As merrily as a gard'ner in the spring. 

Boy. See ! yonder two men standing with drawn 
swords ! 
We shall be murder'd. 

Sexton. Murder'd ! that's a trifle* 

But robb'd of all our money. Hold it fast 
If you know where to find it — grave-diggers 
Still carry gold about them at their work. 
They'll murder, rob, and bury us in a twinkling. 

{The Sexton and Boy stand silent within the shadow 
of the Church->wall 9 and Walsingham and Fitz- 
gerald approach.] 

Fitz. This place is fitter for our present purpose 
Than that we fix'd before. Here is* a grave 



112 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act IF. 

Just ready for thy body Walsingham ! 

Thou mayest have warmer lodgings for the night 

At the price of one small word — " forgiveness." 

Walsingham, Methinks such high-toned pride but ill 
becomes 
A scene like this, What ! ask forgiveness 
Of such a thing as thou — while the Great God 
Beholds us standing here with murd'rous thoughts 
Upon the dark brink of eternity. 
Think what thou art, and what thou soon mayest be. 

Fitz. Fool ! villain ! liar ! thus do I retort 
Thy insupportable words. Thine is the pride — 
The harden'd scorn is thine. But the hour is past, 
In which I might have pardon'd thee — and now 
Look at this rapier, and prepare to die. 

Wal. I am no coward. Yea ! I wish to die — 
But in the shadow of the house of God, 
I must not be a murderer. 

Fitz, House of God ! 

Right pious words ! but they will not avail thee ! 

I think the Plague might well have scared such dreams, 

Best cherish'd in the nursery, or by women 

Whose faint hearts lean when sinking on religion. 

God cares, forsooth, for us his worshippers ! 

Yet though we perish thousands in one night, 

And like the brutes are buried, still we call him 

Lord— Priest and Father, and still hope to rise 

Even from the crowded pit where we lie smother'd 

11 



Scene V, THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. a 13 

Like bees in brimstone, — to rise beautiful, 
And soar to God's throne, spirits glorified ! 

bitter mockery ! Look into that pit 
With all its dread corruption steaming up 
To heaven, like an unheeded sacrifice, 
And then dare talk of immortality. 

Sexton (discovering himself.) 

1 crave your pardon — but I did not dig 

That grave for you, much-honour'd gentlemen. 
It is bespoken, and the worthy owner 
In half an hour will come to take possession. 
I have heard of people fighting for small cause 
Or none — but cutting throats in a church-yard 
Is something new, and 'tis an ugly practice. 

Fitz. (rushing on TValsingham.J 

Here's at thy heart ! 
\He receives Walsingham's sword in his hearty and 
jails , exclaiming,'] 

O Christ ! stone-dead ! stone-dead ! 

Sexton. Killing no murder — 'twas in self-defence. 
You've a quick eye, good Sir ! or he had pink'd you. 
These swords are ugly and unhandy things, 
I never liked them. 

Jfal. Now I am a murderer ! 

That hideous name befits me ! I have sent him 
In all the blindness of his atheist heart 
To his dread audit ! Pho ! his blood will redden 
Upon my hands for ever. Wretch that I am • 

H 



114 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

Sexton* I hear them coming. 

Wal. Whom dost thou hear 

coming ? 
Sexton. Listen I and hear the holy sound of psalms. 

[The Jzmeral approaches the grave where Walsing- 
ham is sitting near the dead ^o^^Magpalene, 
Isabel, Priest, Frankfort, and Wilmot.] 
Priest. What shocking sight is this ? O Waisingham, 
My much-beloved and much-erring boy ! 
I fear that thou hast done a deed of sin, 
For which remorse will haunt thee all thy days. 

Wal. I hear thy voice, but dare not lift my eyes 
Up to thy solemn countenance. I could bear 
Thy anger, but the pity of the righteous 
Speaks to the little virtue that is left 
In my distracted soul, and when I hear it, 

that in dumb deaf darkness I could lie ! 
Frank. We two are brothers in calamity. 

Wal. Frankfort ? O now I know who fills that coffin. 
Behold how with these blood-bedabbled hands 

1 tremble in the presence of her corpse. 

Look here — look' here — upon this stiffening body ! 
Its face convuls'd, cries out " a murderer !" 

[Hejlings himself down.'] 
Sexton, Manslaughter at the worst. There was no 

murder. 
Frank. He heeds us not— lost in the agony 



Scene V. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 115 

Of his remorse. A more compassionate spirit—. 
One more averse to the shedding of man's blood, 
Yet of his own more prodigal, never graced 
The name of seaman. 

Priest, Shall we drop the coffin 
Into the grave ? The hour has come at last ! 
Art thou prepaid to hear the funeral service ? 
Or wilt thou go behind that tomb and wait 

Wal. The funeral service is most beautiful, 
And I can listen to it with the tears 
Of a resigned sorrow. I remember 
The day before I bade a last farewell 
To her who is in heaven — we did partake 
Together of the body of our Lord. 
As we were walking homewards from the church, 
With eyes where a sublime devotion smiPd 
My mother looked at me, and gently whisper'd, 
" Whate'er may be thy doom I feel resign'd ; 
" And if / am not when my son returns, 
" Recall to mind this blessed sacrament, 
" And think of me with Christ." 

Magd. Lean on my heart, 

For now the trial comes. 

(The coffin descends into the grave, J 

Frank. Fling, fling the earth 

Less rudely on her coffin ! Magdalene ! 
See how it disappears ! O final close, 



116 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act II. 

To sunny years of joy and happiness ! 

All perish'd in that dull and hideous sound ! 

Magd. No mortal ever led a happier life. 
Her husband died and she was sorrowful, — 
But misery ne'er disturb'd her soul serene, 
That like a place of worship aye was husht 
By day and night, — or with the voice of hymns 
Singing most sweetly to the ear of heaven. 

Frank. I wonder not so much that she hath died, 
As that a soul so perfect should have liv'd 
So long in this sad world — My little William, 
Buried in all thy beauty — fare thee well ! 
Thank God ! I never said an unkind word 
To the sweet infant ! Tears were in his eyes, 
When last I went to sea— and when I said, 
That I would bring him home the loveliest shells, 
He smiPd and wept. His face is smiling now 
Far, far down in the darkness of the grave. 

[They all kneel down around the grave."] 



END OF THE SECOND ACT 






THE 

C1TT OF THE PLAGUE, 



ACT IIL 

SCENE I. 

The Priest and Wilmot walking in a square of the 
City. — Evening after the funeral of Frankfort's mo- 
ther, 

Wil. How sweetly have I felt the evening-calm 
Come o'er the tumult of the busy day 
In a great city ! when the silent stars 
Stole out so gladsome through the dark-blue heaven s 3 
All undisturb'd by any restless noise 
Sent from the domes and spires that lay beneath 
Hush'd as the clouds of night. 

Priest, Even now 'tis so. 

Did'st thou e'er see a more resplendent moon ? 
A sky more cloudless- — thicker set with stars ? 

Wil, The night is silent — silent was the day- 
But now methinks that sky's magnificence 



118 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

Darkeneth the desolation on the earth !, 
Even such the silence of a beautiful sea 
Rolling o'er a thousand wrecks. 

Priest. Let us sit down 

Upon this seat beneath its sheltering trees 5 
And if my soul can face the fearful things 
Which it has seen and suffer'd, thou shalt hear 
How a whole city perish'd — a whole city ! 
For, walking on the shore, we rightly call 
The ocean calm, though distant waves be breaking 
With melancholy dash against the rocks. 

Wil. Fit place it is for such wild colloquy ! 
These empty houses and that half-built spire 
Standing with all its idle scaffolding 

Priest. I see a thousand sights thou can'st not see, 
Glimmering around me — confused sights of woe 
Mingling in the train of joy and happiness. 
Sweet lovely children all around my feet 
Are sporting — for this wide square was the play-ground 
W T here the bright families of prosperous men 
Walk'd in the sunshine with their fairy dresses, 
Laughing 'mid the flowers ! — O many a slow-pac'd 

hearse 
I see — and little coffins borne along 
Beneath some solitary mourner's arm. 
Mix'd are these images of life and death ! 
For while I muse upon the silent face 
Of one dead infant, crowds of living spirits 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 119 

Come singing by— and though I see a coffin, 
They see it not, but glide with sunny feet 
O'er the biack pall, then disappear for ever. 

WiL Came it on a sudden ? 

Priest. Like a thunder-peal 

One morn a rumour turn'd the city pale ; 
And the tongues of men wild-staring on each other 
Utter'd with faultering voice one little word, 
" The Plague !" Then many heard within their dreams 
At dead of night a voice foreboding woe, 
And rose up in their terror, and forsook 
Homes in the haunted darkness of despair 
No more endurable. As thunder quails 
Th* inferior creatures of the air and earth, 
So bowed the Plague at once all human souls, 
And the brave man beside the natural coward 
WalkM trembling.' On the restless multitude, 
Thoughtlessly toiling through a busy life, 
Nor hearing in the tumult of their souls 
The ordinary language of decay, 
A voice came down that made itself be heard, 
And they started from delusion when the touch 
Of Death's benumbing fingers suddenly 
Swept off whole crowded streets into the grave. 
Then rose a direful struggle with the Pest ! 
And all the ordinary forms of life 
Mov'd onwards with the violence of despair. 
Wide flew the crowded gates of theatres, 



120 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act HI, 

And a pale frightful audience, with their souls 
Looking in perturbation through the glare 
Of a convulsive laughter, sat and shouted 
At obscene ribaldry and mirth profane. 
There yet was heard parading through the streets 
War-music, and the soldier's tossing plumes 
Mov'd with their wonted pride. O idle shew 
Of these poor worthless instruments of death, 
Themselves devoted ! Childish mockery ! 
At which the Plague did scoff, who in one night 
The trumpet silenc'd and the plumes laid low. 
As yet the Sabbath-day — though truly fear 
Rather than piety filTd the house of God — 
Receiv'd an outward homage. On the street 
Friends yet met friends, and dar'd to interchange 
A cautious greeting — and firesides there were 
Where still domestic happiness survived 
'Mid an unbroken family ; while the soul, 
In endless schemes to overcome the Plague, 
In art, skill, zeal, in ruth and charity 
Forgot its horrors, and oft seera'd to rise 
More life-like 'mid the ravages of death. 
But soon the noblest spirits disappear'd, 
None could tell whither — and the city stood 
Like a beleagur'd fortress that hath lost 
The flower of its defenders. Then the Plague 
Storm'd, raging like a barbarous conqueror, 
And hopeless to find mercy every one 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 121 

Fell on his face, and all who rose again 
Crouch'd to the earth in suppliant agony. 

Wil. Father ! how mournful every Sabbath-day 
To miss some well-known faces ! to behold 
The congregation weekly thinn'd by death, 
And empty seats with all their Bibles lying 
Cover'd with dust. 

Priest. Aye — even the house of God 

Was open to the Plague. Amid their prayers 
The kneelers sicken'd, and most deadly-pale 
Rose up with sobs, — and beatings of the heart 
That far off might be heard, a hideous knell 
That ne'er ceas'd sounding till the wretches died. 
Sometimes the silent congregation sat 
Waiting for the priest, then stretch'd within his shroud. 
Or when he came, he bore within his eyes 
A trouble that disturb'd, and read the service 
With the hollow voice of death. 

Wil. Where was the king ? 

The nobles and the judges of the land ? 

Priest, They left the city. Whither — none inquir'd, 
Who cares now for the empires of the earth, 
Their peerage or their monarchs I Kingly ones 
Sit unobserv'd upon their regal seats, 
And the soul looks o'er ocean, earth and air, 
Heedless to whom its fields or waves belong, 
So that there were some overshadowing grove 
Central amid a mighty continent. 



122 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

Or sacred island in the healthful main 
Where men might be transported in a thought 
Far from the wild dominion of the Plague. 
Now He is monarch here- — nor mortal brow 
Durst wear a crown within the fatal sweep 
Of his long bony arm. 

Wil. He loves the silence 

Of an unpeopled reign. 

Priest Once at noon-day 

Alone I stood upon a tower that rises 
From the centre of the city. I look'd down 
With awe upon that world of misery 5 
Nor for a while could say that I beheld 
Aught save one wide gleam indistinctly flung 
From that bewildering grandeur : Till at once 
The objects all assum'd their natural form, 
And grew into a City stretching round 
On every side, far as the bounding sky. 
Mine eyes first rested on the squares that lay 
Without one moving figure, with fair trees 
Lifting their tufted heads unto the light, 
Sweet, sunny spots of rural imagery 
That gave a beauty to magnificence. 
Silent as nature's solitary glens 
Slept the long streets — and mighty London seem'd, 
With all its temples, domes, and palaces, 
Like some sublime assemblage of tall cliffs 
That bring down the deep stillness of the heavens 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 123 

To shroud them in the desert. Groves of masts 
Rose through the brightness of the sun-smote river, 
But all their flags were struck, and every sail 
Was lower'd. Many a distant land had felt 
The sudden stoppage of that mighty heart. 
Then thought I that the vain pursuits of man 
Possess'd a semblance of sublimity, 
Thus suddenly o'erthrown 5 and as I look'd 
Down on the courts and markets, where the soul 
Of this world's business once roar'd like the sea, 
That sound within my memory strove in vain, 
Yet with a mighty power, to break the silence 
That like the shadow of a troubled sky 
Or moveless cloud of thunder, lay beneath me, 
The breathless calm of universal death. 

Wil, I feel all fears for my own worthless self 
Vanish at thy voice — but it grows tremulous — 
I now will hear no more. I know not why 
My soul thus longs to feast itself on terror- 
Last night I saw enough. O that church-yard ! 
That madman's dance ! 

Priest. My voice is tremulous, 

For I shall never see fourscore again. 
But I can speak to thee about the Plague 
That rages round us, with as calm a soul 
As if a hundred years had pass'd away 
Since yonder Pest-house heard the groans and shrieks 
Of more than mortal agony. 



124 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

Wil. A Pest-house ! 

O dreadful habitation ! I beheld it, 
As if in silence standing tenantless. 
List ! list ! what fearful cries ! They will burst the walls, 
And issue forth a ghost-like company 
Into the frighten'd air. Now — now — 'tis silent ! 
As if in that one shriek they all had perish'd. 

Priest. Let not thy spirit penetrate its walk. 
Our Saviour pities it. 

Wil. And who will go 

Into such tomb-like building fill'd with horror ? 

Priest. {Aye ! 'tis a dreadful mansion standing there 
So black ! as if the very walls did know 
The agony within. Yet hither come 
The children of despair and poverty, 
Who baring bosoms yellow with Plague-spots 
Implore admittance, and with hollow voice 
Do passionately vow their gratitude, 
If suffer'd to lay down their rending heads 
On the straw pallets — so that skilful men 
May visit them, even when the wretches say 
They have no hope. Poor souls ! perhaps they die 
In mitigated agony at last \ 
But when a ghost-like shadow enters there 
It sees the sun no more. 

Wil. Didst thou e'er pray 

Within that fearful tabernacle ? 

Priest. Yes ! 

\ 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. us 

'Tis but two nights ago I thither went 

To minister the sacrament. I heard 

A hideous din before I reach'd the door — 

And entering I beheld the ghastly patients 

Walking tumultuously throughout the room, 

Some seemingly in anger — all the rest 

In mute despair. There lay th' attendants dead ! 

And thirst had come upon that pale-fac'd crew 

Who gasp'd, and made wild motions with their hands, 

When in their parch'd mouths prayers or curses died. 

Wil. It was most horrible. 

Priest. But I have witness'd 

A sight more hideous still.- The Plague broke out 
Like a raging firs within the darksome heart 
Of a huge mad-house ; and one stormy night 
As I was passing by its iron gates, 
With loud crash they burst open, and a troop 
Of beings all unconscious of this world, 
tossess'd by their own fearful phantasies, 
Did clank their chains unto the troubled moon 
Fast rolling through the clouds. Away they went 
Across the glimmering square ! some hurriedly 
As by a whirlwind driven, and others moving 
Slow — step by step — with melancholy mien, 
And faces pale in ideot-vacancy. 
For days those wild-eyed visitors were seen 
Shrieking — or sitting in a woeful silence, 
With wither'd hands, and heaps of matted hair ! 



126 THE C1TF OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

And they all died in ignorance of the Plague 
That freed them from their cells. — 

WiL Do none recover 

Whom the Plague strikes ? 

Priest. Not one in many thousands. 

Yet two such wretches have I chanced to see, 
And they are living still — far better dead ! 
For they have lost all memory of the past, 
All feeling of the future. Their own names 
They know not — nor that they are human beings. 
Like images of stone there do they sit, 
When all around is agony ; or laugh, 
As if their features only were convuls'd, 
In the absence of all soul 1 Aye, long and loud 
The laughter is of those stone-images, 
Sitting unmov'd with their glaz'd steadfast eyes t 
And none can tell why the poor wretches laugh 
Who know not how to weep. 

WiL How many children 

Must have died in beauty and in innocence 
This fatal summer ! 

Priest. Many sweet flowers died ! 

Pure innocents ! they mostly sank in peace. 
Yet sometimes it was misery to hear them 
Praying their parents to shut out the Plague ; 
Nor could they sleep alone within their beds, 
In fear of that dread monster. Childhood lost 
Its bounding gladsomeness— its fearless glee — 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 127 

And infants of five summers walk'd about 
With restless eyes, or by their parents' sides 
Crouched shuddering, for they ever heard them speak- 
ing 
Of death, or saw them weeping^-no one smiled. 

Wit Hath not the summer been most beautiful, 
'Mid all this misery ? 

Priest, A sunny season ! 

What splendid days, what nights magnificent 
Pass'd in majestic march above the City, 
When all below was agony and death 1 
" O peaceful dwellers I in yon silent stars, 
" Burning so softly in their happiness !" 
Our souls exclaimed, — " unknown inhabitants 
" Of unknown worlds ! no misery reaches you, 
" For bliss is one with immortality !" 
The very river as it flowed along 
Appear'd to come from some delightful land 
Unknown unto the Plague, and hastening on 
To join the healthful ocean, calmly smil'd, 
A privileged pilgrim through the realms of deatht 
Yea ! in the sore disturbance of men's souls 
They envied the repose of lifeless things ! 
And the leafy trees that grac'd the city-squares, 
Bright with the dews of morning, they seem'd blest ! 
On them alone th' untainted air of heaven 
Shed beauty and delight— all round them died. 
London alone, of all the world seem'd curst. 



128 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

O happy spots in country — or in town I 

'Mid savage wilds — or dark and noisome streets — 

Cut off from human intercourse — or haunted 

By vice and sorrow, penury and guilt, 

Ye seem'd to all a blessed Paradise, 

Whether on wings of rapture they would fly 

Nor ever leave you more — for nature groans 

" Where the Plague is not, there dwells happiness." 

Wil. Dreadful indeed, to think how months and 
months 
Have pass'd and still are passing without hope. 

Priest. In church-yards, not in houses, it did seem 
As if the people lived. They haunted there. 
It was, you well may think, a woeful sight 
In every burial-ground to see the grave-stones 
Blacken'd o'er with persons, sitting night and day, 
Bewailing their lost friends. But sadder still, 
Ere long to see the self- same tombstones bare, 
Telling how few at last were left to weep. 
Sometimes I take my solitary stand 
In one of those wide church-yards. Onwards pass 
A multitude of faces recognised 
Dimly, as beings vanish'd from this world : 
Till as I gaze upon them, memory 
Disowns the wild creation of my brain, 
And the image of those countless myriads, 
Some strange procession seems of unknown creatures 
On some unknown occasion moving by, 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 129 

And cloud-like disappearing from my soul, 
A shifting pageant journeying endless on ! 

WiL And all immortal souls ! sent from this world 
As by a breath ! like insects vanishing 
On a sudden, when a breeze comes o'er the silence 
Of a sultry summer-noon ! — 

Priest. What meets thine eyes ? 

WiL Lo ! yonder Frankfort walking toward us. 
Is there not something wild in his appearance ? 
I trust that all is well with Magdalene. 
Alas ! should she be dead ! 

Priest. 'Tis for himself 

I fear that we must weep. That devious pace, 
Now stopping on a sudden — and now hurried 

As by a raging wind against the will 

I tremble to behold it — for the Pest 
Oft dallies thus with its delirious victims. 

And yet some agitation of the mind 

[Wilmot goes up to Frankfort as he is passing by 
distractedly without noticing them.'] 

WiL Companion — messmate — friend — best, dearest 
friend, 
Wilt thou not speak to us ? 

Prank. Hoist out the barge — 

My crew will pull her through the roaring surf. 
I have a mother dying of the Plague* • • • 

WiL Sweet friend ! look, look around ! O misery ! 
His mind is overthrown. 

1 



130 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

Frank. Say who art thou 

That glarest so upon me with thine eyes ? 
Hadst thou a brother once ? 

Wil. My name is Wilmot. 

Frank. Wilmot ? Methinks I know thee ! Wilmot ! 
Wilmot ! 

Wil. I owe my life to thee 

Frank. O merciful God ! 

A roaring whirlwind hurries off my soul — 
I surely feel these stones beneath my feet ; 
Houses are standing round me — yet even now, 
If ever sailor trod upon a deck 

I was on board the Thunderer. What dark building 
Towers yonder like a cloud ? Is it a mad-house ? 
No irons on my hands • • • • O chain me — chain me— 
In mercy to one steadfast place of earth, 
Nor drive me onwards like a heaving wave 
Over the midnight sea. 

Priest. Touch this grey head ! 

Frank. Old man ! thou hast a kind and gentle look — 
— Then tell me this, and I will bless thee for it. 
Did a fair maiden come on board to day, 
Calling herself, with a low mournful voice, 
I ' -gdalene Lambert ? Did she ask for me 
With that low mournful voice, and hath she gone 
Weeping away because she found me not ? 
Drest is she all in white, as Poets feign 
The angel Innocence — and when she speaks • • • • 



Scene I. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 131 

Wilmot, I know thee now — hath something dreadful 
Fallen on my head — or am I in a fever, 
And raving here with a distemper'd brain ? 

Priest. We are indeed thy friends ! Look at this hair 
Which I am wearing close unto my heart 
For thy dead mother's sake. Behold how softly 
The silver-lined auburn doth repose, 
Amid the sunshine of sweet William's ringlets. 

[Frankfort falls on his neck and weeps."] 

Frank. Conduct me home — home — home — whate'er 
I say. 
But look not so • • • • O ye dim ghastly faces, 
I know ye not • • • • I am your prisoner .... 
Lead, lead me hence, and chain me in my cell. 

Priest to Wilmot. Let us conduct him home ! prepare 
thy soul 
For what this night may happen to thy friend. 
For death is in his face. 

SCENE 1L 
Magdalene seen lying asleep on a couch — Isabel and a 
Young Girl sitting beside her. 

Isabel. Didst thou e'er see so beautiful a face ? 
Lo ! how it smiles through sleep ! Even in her dreams 
Her soul is at some work of charity. 

Child. May I go softly up, and kiss her cheek ? 
O why is it so pale ? 



132 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III, 

Isabel. 'Twas always so. 

Child. I thought that paleness was a mark of grief. 
My mother's face was always deadly pale, 
But then she often wept — I know not why. 
This Lady must be happy. 

Isabel. She awakes. 

Child. Perhaps that kiss disturb'd her. 
Isabel (to Magdalene who awakes.) Magdalene ! 
Thou scarcely seem'st to recollect this child. 
'Tis she who follow'd thee from that house of death : 
Look here — her small hands have already learn'd 
To serve her gracious mistress ; and this table 
With such refreshments as thy need requires 
They spread — an orphan's gratitude has blest them. 

Magd. Wilt thou go hundreds of long weary miles, 
Carried thou know'st not where, along with me 
And that kind girl ? A sister of our own 
In a far-distant land thou then wilt be, 
And all day run about green sunny hills 
With little snow-white lambs, while happy birds 
Sing to thee from their nests among the broom. 

Child. I would go with thee to a land of ice 
And everlasting snow. 

Magd. How prone to love 

Is the pure sinless soul of infancy ! 

Child. My father — mother — brothers — sisters all — 
Are dead ! yet Lady ! when I hear thee speak, 
I must be happy in spite of all the tears 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 133 

That gush into mine eyes. My mother stood 
Close to my pillow last night in a dream, 
And bade me weep no more, for that an angel 
Had folded over me her heavenly wings. 
I woke — and there wert thou ! at my bedside 
With these delightful smiles. 

Magd. O Isabel 1 

Of all the mournful — sad — affecting things 
That sorrow meets with in a world of sorrow, 
The saddest sure those smiles of happiness, 
Those sudden starts of uncontrollable glee 
That, like the promptings of a different nature, 
Assail the heart of childhood 'mid its grief, 
And turn its tears to rapture. Beauteous beings ! 
Hanging in the air 'twixt joy and misery ! 
Now like the troubled sea-birds wildly- wailing 
Through the black squall ; — and now upon the billows 
Alighting softly with the gleams of light, 
They float in beauty of a fearless calm. 

Isabel. Why so profound a sigh ? 

Magd. A deadly pain 

Even at that moment struck into my heart. 
A sudden fear disturbs me — look on my face — 
Seest thou aught wild and strange within my eyes ? 
Fear not to speak the truth. 

Isabel. O nought I see 

Within these eyes but a meek tender light 
Softer than swimming tears — and on thy face 



134 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

The same pale beauty lies by all belcVd 

Even when thou wert a child — a breathing paleness 

More touching than the cheeks so rosy-red 

Of other children — nothing else see I. 

Magd. O shame ! I feel the tears upon my cheek, 
I weep that I must die. O days and nights 
Past on my knees beside the bed of death, 
Have ye been all in vain ! I shudder at death 
Even as this child would do — most mournful weakness \ 

Child. I would not fear to die within your arms. 

Magd. Bring me yon little mirror here — sweet child ! 
And as you come with it, look in and see 
As fair a face as ever Innocence 
Put on to gladden her own gazing soul ! 

[ The Child gives the looking-glass to Magdalene, 
'who after a single glance continues^ 
One look into that glass reveal'd my fate. 
I wish not to deceive my Isabel. 
I feel that I am dying. 

Isabel, (falling on her knees.) Merciful God ! 
Let the cup of death pass from her holy lips. 

Magd. One momentary pang when torn from earth ! 
I am resign'd. 

Isabel. O last night's awful scene, 

Hath overcome thy body and thy soul. 
Both are disquieted — but both ere long 
Will wake to peace. — Assist me Margaret, 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE, 135 

And we two soft and silent as a dream 

Will lay her on that bed. How feels my mistress ? 

[ They support her to bed."] 

Magd. Too well am I acquainted with the Plague, 
And all its fatal symptoms. I beheld 
The slumb'rous weight upon my eyes, the dim 
Blue shade that never more must leave my cheeks — 
My lips are touch'd by death — before the hour 
Of earliest morning— the small midnight hour— r 
— O Heaven protect my faithful Isabel, 
And waft her safe, as on an angel's wing, 
To that sweet Lake which I must see no more ! 

Isabel. This world at once is darken'd. 

Magd. Frankfort ! come, 

Or thy sweet voice will all be lost on me ! — 
— Last night I dreamt of death and burial : 
The Plague had stricken me in my troubled sleep ! 
Look here — death-tokens on my breast I 

\Isabel rushes into her arms and kisses her bosom.'] 
Isabel. These kisses 

Will cure my agony ! O savage death \ 
May not the touch of that angelic bosom 
Win o'er to pity thy relentless soul 1 
O Christ ! that mortal blueness hath been spread 
By the chill air of the grave ! 

Magd. Kiss — kiss me not. 

Isabel. Till death come from thy bosom — I will kiss 
thee. 



136 , THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III, 

Child. Lady ! I hear a soft tap at the door. 

Magd. Then open it my little fearful maid, 
For none but friends come here. 

[Enters the Oi,d Priest.} 

Priest. What ! all in tears ! 

Isabel. O Sir ! look here ! — look here ! 

Priest. My holy child ! 

O ghost-like now thy more than mortal beauty I 
Can'st thou not raise thy head ? * . 

Magd. O pray for me. 

Priest. Daughter ! thy name is well-beloved in 
heaven. 
There hath been something in thy destiny 
Above our human nature, and thy soul 
Conspicuous, like a never-setting star, 
Hath shone o'er all the city — shedding joy 
And consolation. There is need of thee 
In this most wicked and afflicted world, 
And therefore do I trust with holy awe 
That death's dark shadow will pass over thee, 
And thou in undimm'd beauty reappear ! 
—If so the will of God! 

Magd. Thou must pray for me, 

While yet I hear arid understand thy prayers. 
Too well thou thinkest of me — I am weak 
In all my being — weaker far than many 
Who have died unprais'd — unhallow'd and unwept. 
O sinful pride ! and base hypocrisy ! 



Scene II. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 137 

If in the deep prostration of my soul 

I did not so confess. My earthly nature, 

With eager visi tings to all unknown, 

Oft haunted me, when I was kneeling down 

In prayer with others— holding up the head 

From which all sense was parting. Oh ! my pity 

Was oft imperfect — almost insincere 1 

Yet God may in his boundless love accept 

My feeble efforts. Faith at least is mine. 

Oh ! were that gone I should be poor indeed. 

Priest. Daughter ! in happier mood thou could'st not 
die. 

Magd. O father ! when I liv'd in happiness, 
I drank the cup of joy, and often fail'd 
To thank the hand that gave it. Years pass'd by, 
And still I grew and flour ish'd, like a flower 
Unconscious of the sun that blesseth it. 
But now the sadness of ingratitude 
Disturbeth me, when I have need of comfort. 

Priest. God is well satisfied with innocence. 
The pure soul best doth prove its gratitude 
By acquiescence to his will supreme, — 
.Calm thoughts and meek desires, — unsought-for bliss 
Coming to youth from all the points of heaven, — 
And above all by natural piety 
That sees love, beauty, and delight on earth, 
And on their wings mounts every happy man 
Up to the gates of heaven. Thy joyful years 



138 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

Are not forgotten by the Power that gave them, 
And not one virtuous, momentary thought 
E'er stirr'd thy heart, that is not register'd 
In the book of mercy — therefore calm thy soul. 

Magd. I cannot doubt the language of these eyes, 
So solemn — saint-like !— O were Frankfort happy ! 
I now could follow death into the grave 
As joyfully as in the month of May 
A lamb glides after its soft-bleating mother 
Into a sunny field of untrod dew. 
Heaven will protect my Isabel ! Thou too 
My well-beloved friend of yesterday 
Wilt have a gentle father. Dry thy tears — 
Yet youth will dry them for thee. If my Frankfort — 

\_She starts suddenly up in bed.~\ 
Take — take away these hands before thy face 
And tell me in one word — u is he alive ?" 

Priest. He is alive — but his perturbed soul 
Is tost and driven throughout a ghastly dream. 

Magd. Is he alone — in his insanity ? 

that the Plague would prey upon our bodies, 
But leave the spirit free ! 

Priest. Wilmot is with him. 

Magd. Eternal bliss be with that fearless friend ! 
Priest. It may not be the Plague. 
Magd. It is the Plague. 

1 know it is the Plague — and he will die. 

Isabel, O lady ! rise not up. 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 139 

[Magdalene rises from bed and stands in the midst 
of them .] 
Magd. What ! remain here ? 

In what I say I must not be oppos'd. 
You love me — therefore in your love be silent. 
I go to Frankfort — I shall not fall down 
In the street before I reach him. I feel strong, 
And could walk many miles. Come Isabel. 
Let me kiss the book of God before I go.— 
Farewell my little room ! Thou art indeed 
A calm and peaceful cell — and I have past 
Many still hours of awful happiness 
Within thy lonely twilight. Now farewell ! 
I leave thee for a lodging calmer yet. 

SCENE III. 

Frankfort lying on a bed in the house of his deceased 

mother. — Wilmot watching beside him. 

Frank. Go upon deck and tell me if thou seest 
The signal flying for close line of battle. 
Does our good vessel lead the van to-day ? 
Or will those tame and cautious Hollanders 
Still keep a lee- shore on their skulking bows ? 

Wil. Look on me Frankfort — this is all a dream. 

Frank. No time for jesting. Tell the old lieutenant 
That a braver seaman never trod the deck, 



140 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

But that I fight my ship myself to-day, 
She is his when I am killed. 

Wil. Look at this bed — 

These curtains pictur'd o'er with little birds 
Sporting in a grove of spring. Thy cabin, Frankfort, 
Hath no such peaceful garniture. Look here, 
We have no windows like to these at sea. 
Frankfort thou art a right good seaman still, 
And in thy raving fits must needs be fighting 
With these poor Dutchmen. — Prithee let them rest 
In their flat-bottom'd vessels for one day. 
—Ha ! thou art smiling ! 

Frank, Yes ! I well may smile 

At my poor wandering soul. Wilmot ! a ship 
Doth on the ocean hold the raging winds 
At her command — queen-like, as doth become her. 
But I am driven along a glimmering sea, 
And know not how to bear up 'gainst the storm. 

Wil. Thank God you recognise your friend at last. 

Frank. I know thee now — but whether, the next mo- 
ment, 
Thy face may seem to me what now I think it, 
God only knows. It is a dreadful state, 
When, like a horse by lightning scar'd to madness, 
One's soul flies with him wheresoe'er it will, 
And still one feels that he is hurried on 
But cannot stop — in terror hurried on — 
Away — away — away — a frightful race ! 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 141 

Wil. Thou may'st remember what vagaries I 
Once fell into, when that fierce tropic sun 
Did smite my brain with fever. Then, heaven bless me ! 
I was far more pacific in my dreams, 
And fancied all the world in love with me. 

'Frank. What fool hath brought our vessel to an an- 
chor ? 
Order the master down—by heaven the fleet 
Will laugh us all to scorn. Hark, a broadside ! 
We are a long league in the admiral's wake 
While he is closing with the enemy. 
Hoist every inch of canvas — I will soon 
Recover my lee-way. 

\He leaps out of bed with great violence, and falls 
senseless on the floor. After a long fainting-fit he 
exclaims,'] 

Where am I Wilmot ? — 
Where art thou my pure spirit — where is Magdalene ? 
WiU She and the old Priest will be here anon. 
Frank, Is this a stormy night ? 
Wil. A perfect calm. 

Frank. The noise of thunder and tempestuous waves 
Is raging in my soul. 

Wil. 'Tis all a dream. 

Frank, O hold me— hold me fast — keep, keep me 
here. 
I am on board a ship, and she is sinking 
Down to the very bottom of the sea. 



142 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

She bounds up from the abyss — and o'er the billows 
Rolls manageless — and now — now water-logg'd 
Is settling — settling — till she sink like lead 
Never to rise again ! Hush— hush my crew ! 
In shipwreck fearless as in battle — hush ! 
Let us sink in silence to eternity. 

WiU On good dry land are we my boy ! at last. 
Though yet the rolling of our gallant ship 
Is loth to leave our brains. Smile to me messmate. 

Frank, Have we been travelling o'er foreign lands 
And met adventures perilous and wild ? 
Thou seem'st to look on me with asking eyes ! 
Listen, and I will tell a fearful story : 
But interrupt me not — for like a flood 
That hath been all night raging 'mid the mountains 
My soul descends from its wild solitude, 
And must sweep on till all its troubled thoughts 
Have from their headlong fury found repose. 
Thou wilt not interrupt me ? 

Wil. No ! sweet friend ! 

Frank. It seemeth many many years ago 
Since I remember aught about myself, 
Nor can I tell why I am lying here. 
Before I fell into this dream, I saw 
A most magnificent and princely square 
Of some great city. Sure it was not London ? 
No — no — the form and colour of those clouds 
So grim and dismal never horrified 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 143 

The beautiful skies of England, nor such thunder 
Ever so growPd throughout my native clime. 
It was the capital city of a kingdom 
Lying unknown amid unvoyaged seas, 
Where towers and temples of an eastern structure 
With airy pomp bewildered all my soul. 
When gazing on them I was struck at once 
With blindness and decay of memory, 
And a heart-sickness almost like to death. 
A deep remorse for some unacted crime 
Fell 011 me. There, in dizziness I stood, 
Contrite in conscious innocence — repentant 
/ Of some impossible nameless wickedness 
That bore a dread relation unto me. 
A ghastly old man — and a noble youth 
Yet with fierce eyes that smil'd with cruelty, 
Came up to me all lost in wonderment 
What spots of blood might mean beneath my feet 
All over a bed of flowers. The old man cried, 
" Where is thy mother impious parricide I 
" Ha ! thou bast buried her beneath these flowers." 
The young man laugh'd and kick'd the flowers aside, 
And there indeed my murder'd mother lay 
With her face up to heaven ! imploring mercy 
For her unnatural son. Then the old man 
Touch'd my cold shoulder with his icy fingers, 
And direful pains assail'd me suddenly — 
Burnings and shiverings— ~ flashings from my eyes — 



144 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

And dizzy blindness whirling round my soul — 

And arrowy sharpness tingling through my bones — 

Until 1 wept in utter agony. 

And all the while I saw my mother's corpse 

Lying in peace before her frantic son, 

And knew that I in WT3th had murder'd her. 

More dreadful was my doon2 than if my hand 

Indeed had ta'en her life— for suTe in sleep 

The soul hath a capacity of horror N 

Unknown to waking hours. No fetter'd^ retcn > 

Dragg'd on a sledge to execution, 

E'er felt such horrid pangs as then stirr'd up 

My spirit with remorseful agony. 

O Wilmot ! Wilmot ! lead me to my mother — 

That 1 with yearning soul may pour my kisses 

O'er the dear frame I murder'd in my sleep. 

Wil. Yesterday morning in this very bed 
Your mother died a calm and peaceful death, 
Blessing her son for all his piety. 

Frank, O lying Fiend ! Thou art the very youth 
That shook the bloody flowers before my face, 
And from the land of dreams hast follow'd me 
In ghostly persecution to the light 
Of this our upper world ! Say ! where is he, 
The grey-hair'd Fiend in holy vestments clad ? 

Christ ! so wild a likeness in his wrath 
Of my best earthly friend ! — Upon my knees 

1 cry to thee — I shriek unto thy soul — 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 145 

Art, art thou Wilmot ? — Let me see thine eyes — 
Oh ! they are fill'd with tears ! my brother weeps ! 
And well he may — for such a wretch as I am 
God ne'er before abandon'd to despair. 

Wil, Thy soul will climb into the light at last, 
Out of its haunted darkness — fear it not. 

Frank. The Plague ! the Plague ! the Plague ! did 
she not die 
Of the Plague ? who saw her buried ? No one — no 

one. — 
Drive off that madman from my mother's grave, 
And let that angel all array'd in light 
Look down with her sunlike face into the pit, 
Her smile will make it heaven. O Magdalene ! 
Thy spirit comes down from its rest on high 
To glorify my mother's funeral. 
Yes ! What on earth we love and call it Pity, 
In heaven we worship by a holier name, 
Mercy ! The seraph whom our Saviour loves. 

Wil. She is alive. No tears need fall for him 
Who, waking from a dream so steep'd in horror, 
Hath such an one to bless him when he wakes. 
Thy Magdalene lives. 

Frank, O heartless mockery ! 

Why earnest thou here to talk of Magdalene ? 
Thou art leagued with all the world to murder me, 
With that sweet name too beauteous to be borne* 
I know that she is dead, and am resign'd, 



146 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

But let her name die too — its syllables 
Flame on my brain in letters form'd of fire, 
A burning name, all, all that now remains. 

Wil. O I would die, so that my friend had peace. 

Frank. O Wilmot ! Pity him the Plague hath 
stricken ! 
He knows not what he says. O pity me ! 
For I have undergone such mortal pains ! 
Whether in dreams or in a waking hell 
I know not — but my soul hath suffer'd them — 
And they have left me powerless as a sail 
Hanging in the breathless calm. But list ! I hear 
Soft footsteps pattering all around my head — 
Are they living feet ? 

Wil. Behold thy Magdalene. 

{Enter Magdalene, Priest, Isabel, and Child.] 

Frank. I see a groupe of faces known in youth — 
All but the face of that delightful child — 
And she admitted to such company 
Must be what she appears — unknown to sin. 

\_Magdalene kneels down by the bedside and looks 
on Frankfort."] 

Magd. Say that thou know'st me, and I shall die 
happy. 

Frank. Magdalene ! for I will call thee by that name ! 
Thou art so beautiful ! 

Magd. Enough— enough ! 

Frank. O Magdalene ! why I am lying here, 



Scene III. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 147 

And why so many melancholy faces 
Are looking all at me, and none but me, 
I now must never know. I see the tears 
Which all around do shed are meant for me ; 
But none will tell me why they thus should weep. 
Has some disgrace befallen me ? One word, 
One little word from thee will make all plain — 
For oh ! a soul with such a heavenly face, 
Must live but in relieving misery ! 

Magd. Disgrace and Frankfort's name are far asun- 
der, 
As bliss from bale. O press my hand, sweet friend ! 
Its living touch may wake thee from thy dream 
Of unsubstantial horrors. Magdalene 
Hath come to die with thee — even in thy arms ! 

Frank. O music well known to my rending brain- 
It breathes the feeling of reality 
O'er the dim world that hath perplex'd my soul. 
All, all again is clear — I know myself — 
Magdalene and Wilmot — Isabel and thee, 
Beloved old man ! — what may be the name 
Of this small creature ? 

Child, Margaret Rivington. 

Frank. God bless thy sweet simplicity. 

Magd. Thy face 

Is all at once spread over with a calm 
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy ! 
I am no more disconsolate. We shall die 



148 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

Like two glad waves, that, meeting on the sea 
In moonlight and in music, melt away 
Quietly 'mid the quiet wilderness ! 

Frank, Sweet image to a sailor !— How my soul 
Enjoys this quiet after its despair ! 

might I lie for ever on the bed 

Of sickness — so that such dear comforters 
Might sit beside me ! singing holy airs, 
Or talking to each other, or to me, 
Even to the very moment of my death. 
The sweetest voice among so many sweet 
My Magdalene's ! and I the happy cause 
Of all such tender looks and melting tones. 

Magd. Frankfort hast thou look'd upon thy Magda- 
lene's face ? 

Frank. (Starting up.) O God ! remove that colour 
from her cheek — 
That woeful glimmer of mortality ! 
Who brought thee hither from thy distant room ? 

Magd., On foot I came between two loving friends. 

1 felt not wearied then — but now I feel 
That I can walk no more. Let me lie down 
And die, as we two will be buried 

Close to each other's side. 

Frank, O cruel friends 

To let thee walk so far with that pale face, 
Weak as thou art to see a dying wretch 
Like me ! 



Scene HI. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 14>9 

{They raise up Magdalene, and lay her on the bed 
beside Frankfort.] 

Magd. I hope thou feel'st no cruel pain ? 

Frank, Thy soft white spotless bosom, like the plumes 
Of some compassionate angel, meets my heart ! 
And all therein is quiet as the snow 
At breathless midnight. 

Magd. No noise in thy brain ? 

Frank. A sweet mild voice is echoing far away 
In the remotest regions of my soul. 
'Tis clearer now — and now again it dies. 
And leaves a silence smooth as any sea, 
When all the stars of heaven are on its breast. 

Magd. We go to sleep, and shall awake with God. 

Frank. Sing me one verse of a hymn before I die. 
Any of those hymns you sang long, long ago 
On Sabbath evenings ! Sob not so my Magdalene, 

Magd. (sings.) 

Of Souls I see a glorious shew 

Beyond life's roaring flood ! 
With raiment spotless as the snow, 

Wash'd white in Jesus' blood. 

His gentle hand their couch hath spread 

By many a living stream — 
No sigh is drawn—no tear is shed — 

One bright — eternal dream ! 

Frank. I cannot see thee— but I hear thy voice 
Breathing assurance of the world to come. 



150 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

I feel that I am dying— sinking down 

As through soft-yielding waters murmuring round me, 

Noiseless a» air, and almost to be breathed. 

It is the calm before the approach of death. 

Kiss — kiss me Magdalene ! I am sinking down — 

Wilmot farewell — old man — kind Isabel — 

Kiss — kiss me ! • • • • 

Wil. to Priest* Death was in that long-drawn sigh. 

Priest. Our friend is gone. 

Magd, Yes ! I have kiss'd his lips 

And they are breathless. Let me lay my head 
On thy unbeating bosom. O sweet hair 
In stillness shadowing that delightful face 
Where anger never came ! — I see a smile 
No living thing may borrow from the dead ! 

Priest, She is composed. 

Magd. Yes father ! I am blest. 

This were a sight on which despair might look 
With stony eyes and groan herself to madness. 
But I am dying — therefore o'er the dead 
Weep only tears of joy. 

Isabel. But o'er the living ! 

Oh! 

Magd. A drowsiness falls on me. Isabel 
Let me sleep in Frankfort's arms. I shall awake 
Refresh'd and happy in th' approach of death, 
And whisper to thy ear my farewell words. 

Priest. She falls asleep ! in that most death-like trance 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 15 i 

Let us bear Frankfort's body to the grave ! 

— She may recover ! See her breath just moves 

The ringlets on his cheek ! — How lovingly 

In her last sleep these white and gentle hands 

Lie on his neck and breast ! — Her soul is parting ! 

Had ever lovers such a death as this ? 

Let us all kneel and breathe our silent prayers ! 

SCENE IV. 
A church-yard — midnight — a crowd of people assembled 
round the mouth of a huge pit dug for the interment of 
the dead. 

1st Man. Keep back my friends — so that each man 
may have 
A fair view of the pit : — We all stand here 
Upon a footing of equality, 
And the less we crowd upon each other thus, 
The better shall we see the spectacle. 

2d Man. What think ye ? Why the villain at the gate 
Would have admittance-money, and stretched forth 
His long lean shrivell'd fingers in my face, 
Half-beggar and half-robber. Lying knave ! 
Who said he had not drawn a sous to-night : 
For in his other palm I saw the edge 
Of silver monies smiling daintily. 
So I push'd the hoary swindler to the wall, 
And, as he dropp'd the coin, I saw no harm 



152 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

In picking up some stragglers for myself. 

I wonder where will imposition end 

Thus rife within the dwellings of the dead ! 

3d Man. This pit is not so wide by one good half 
As that in Moorfields. Threescore men were digging 
Down its dark sides for four-and-twenty hours, 
Yet in one little week 'twas filPd to the brim. 
This is a sorry pit, and would not hold 
Above five hundred full grown corpses. Zounds ! 
'Tis throwing money away to buy a look 
At such a miserable hole as this. 

1st Man. 1 say stand back — what obstinate fool is this 
All muffled up to the eyes, with his slouch'd hat 
Drawn o'er his face — still pressing to the brink, 
As he would have the whole pit to himself 
And not allow a peep to one beside. 

2d Man. Disturb him not — perhaps he is some wretch 
Madden'd by the Plague, and blindly coming here 
To bury himself alive, as many do. 
Let him leap down, when once he feels the softness 
Of the cold bodies yielding under him 
He will be right fain, if the steep walls allow, 
To crawl back to his life and misery. 

3d Man. Let's see thy face. Perhaps thou art afraid 
Lest the night air may spoil its delicate beauty. 

[He lifts up the ma?i f s hat."} 
Stranger. O scoff not — scoff not at a wretch like me. 
My friends ! I am no subject for your mirth. 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE, 153 

My wife — my father and four little children 

Will soon within the dead-cart be brought here, 

And I must see them buried spite of laughter, 

In spite of laughter, agony, or death. 

— Laugh on — laugh on — for all the world is nought 

But emptiness and mockery. I myself 

Will join your laughter — now I fear it not. 

For mirth and misery are but different names 

For one delusion. — O that hideous grave 

Hath sent its earthy coldness through my being, 

And I feel blended with the damp black mould. 

\H.e rushes aixiay to a distance, and flings himself 
down on a tombstone,'] 

3d Man, Did'st see his face ? it was a dreadful sight* 
Such face I once remember to have seen 
Of a chain'd madman howling in his cell. 
Suddenly lifted from the stony floor 
It seem'd all eyes — one gleaming of despair. 

1st Man, What signifies a living maniac's face t 
Have we not often seen th' unsheeted dead 
Rear'd up like troops in line against the walls ? 
To us at distance seemingly alive, 
All standing with blotch'd faces, and red eyes 
Unclos'd, as in some agonizing dream ! 

2d Man. Just round the corner of that street — even 
now 
I stumbled on such hideous company. 
The lamps burn'd dimly, and the tall church-tower 



154 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

Rose up between me and the moon. I saw 

A glimmering whiteness all along the walls 

Of several silent houses— up I went — 

And right before me stood the ghastly dead 

For whose grim faces no kind hand had done 

The last sad office. Oh ! 'twas terrible ! 

To recognise in those convulsed features 

Friends at whose fire-side I had often sat ! 

And as I hurried off in shivering fear 

Methought I heard a deep and dismal groan 

From that long line of mortal visages 

Shudder through the deep'ning darkness of the street. 

2d Man. Hark— hark ! 

3d Man, What hideous tolling shakes the city ! 

1st Man. Methinks the still air, like a sudden wave, 
Heaves onward at each slow swing of that bell. 
From what tower comes the sound ? 

2d Man. St Mary Overie's. 

I know the toll ! a thousand dreams of death 
Come with that voice. It fills the den of night 
With mortal fear, rendering the silent heavens 
The dim abode of unimagined horrors. 
List ! every heart is beating audibly ! 

1st Man. Who tolls the bell at the dead hour of night ? 

2d Man. Perhaps no human hand. 

1st Man. 'Tis said one midnight 

The sexton heard a tolling from that tower, 
And entering on a sudden silently 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 155 

He saw a being wrapt up in a shroud 
Pulling the rope with black and bony hands, 
And singing all the while a hideous tune 
That breath'd not of this world. It turn'd about, 
And one glance of its wild and fiery eye 
Crazed the poor wretch's brain. 

2d Man, Have mercy — Jesu ! 

Dost thou believe in ghosts ? 

1st Man, That midnight bell 

Startleth methinks the silent world of spirits. 
Who could deny, with that unearthly sound 
Tolling through his brain, that something in the grave 
Exists more horrible than worms and darkness ! 
It may be that wild dreams inhabit there, 
And disembodied thoughts ! Despair — remorse — 
And with his stifled shrieks — Insanity ! 
Half-conscious all the while that the curse of God 
Must be eternal, struck into the grave. 

3d Man. That is my creed. Sometimes their chains 
are loosen'd : . 

How else account for all the sighing sounds 
That oft at breathless midnight pass us by, 
Wailing with more than mortal agonies. 
Strange faces often have been seen at night, 
Of persons long entomb'd ; and once a phantom 
Walk'd to the church-yard with a funeral, 
Sobbing and weeping like the Christian crowd, 



156 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

When as the coffin sank, it disappeared, 
And nought but dry bones lay upon the dust. 

2d Man. What rumbling sound is that ? 

3d Man. The dead-cart comes I 

"lis heavily laden, for it moves but slowly. 
It still is in the street — yet o'er the pavement 
It sounds as dully as o'er trodden turf. 
I have driven a hearse with one dead body in it, 
And once by midnight o'er a dreary moor 
With no one near me but that sheeted corpse 
Till my back felt like ice. But this dead-cart 1 
See yonder where its lamps, like two great eyes. 
Are moving towards us. It comes silently, 
For now its wheels are on the church-yard turf. 

[All make way for it as it approaches the pit.'] 

1st Man. The ghastly idiot-negro, charioteer ! 
See how he brandishes around his head 
A whip that in the yellow lamp-light burns 
Like a fiery serpent. How the idiot laughs \ 
And brightens up his sable countenance, 
With his white teeth that stretch from ear to ear. 
Thank God he is no Christian — only a negro. 
[The cart is emptied into the pit, ,] 

Stranger, (leaping in) Bury me — bury me. 

1st Man. Let him have his will. 

I would not venture down into that pit 
To help him out for all that he is worth. 
However rich he be. 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 157 

2d Man. Yet 'tis a pity 

That his watch, and chains, and seals, (they seem'd of 

gold,) 
Should thus be lost. I'll leap down instantly 
And bring them up, if I'm allow'd to keep them. 

[The negro when about to drive away the cart de- 
scends, and brings him up with a little dead 
child in Ms arms.'] 
Stranger. I knew my infant by her shining hair ! 
Shining at the bottom of the dismal pit 
Even like a star in heaven. I hear her breathing ! 
— Feel, feel this kiss — for I have rescued thee 
From being buried alive. My Emmeline, 
Open thy blue eyes on thy father's soul. 
There's earth upon her face — Oh ! wet damp earth 
On the warm rosy cheeks of innocence. 
Now 'tis kiss'd off for ever. Why not speak ? 
I will carry thee home unto thy mother's bosom. 
There wilt thou speak — wilt laugh and nestle there. 
She thought thee dead — but thou art quite alive, 
Or rising from the dead — for dead thou art not, 
And must not be. Home ! home ! my Emmeline ! 
Thy mother waits our coming— home ! home ! home ! 
[He rushes away with the dead infant in his arms.] 
1st Man. Well, let him go. — Ha ! thanks to the kind 
moon 
Coming out so brightly from her tabernacle ! 
There is a perfect prospect of the pit 



158 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act HI. 

Down to the very bottom. Now again 

'Tis dark as pitch. Hear ! hear the crumbling earth, 

How sullenly it sounds when it has reached 

The ground- rock I 'Tis indeed a fearful depth ! 

[A small procession enters the church-yard — Voices 
heard singing a dirge for the dead.] 

Revelations, ch. xiv. verse 13. 

I heard a voice from heaven 

Say, " Blessed is the doom 
" Of them whose trust is in the Lord, 
" When sinking to the tomb r 

The holy spirit spake — 
And I his words repeat — 

II Blessed are they" — for after toil 

To mortals rest is sweet. 

{The procession advances — Wilmot, Priest, fyc. 
bearing Frankfort's dead body.'] 

Wil, There rest awhile upon this stone, dear corpse. 
I with my own hands now will dig thy grave. 
Oh ! when that grave is filled — what solitude 
All earth will seem to me ! 

Voice from the Crowd. List to the Priest ! 

Priest. We all are sinful — and thy soul partook 
In the frailties of our falPn humanity. 
Therefore I pray forgiveness to thy sins 
From God and Christ. But this I dare to say, 
In the dread calm of this wide burial-ground, 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE, 159 

That, far as man's heart can be known to man, 

A braver, gentler, purer, loftier spirit 

Ne'er walk'd this world of trial. — O dear youth ! 

Sweet boy ! beloved from thine infancy ! 

Methinks I see thee on thy mother's knee 

Conning thy evening prayer. Art thou the same, 

That, with thy bright hair thus dishevelled, 

Liest on a tombstone, dead and coffinless, 

About to sink for ever from our eyes ! 

— One little month — and all thy earthly part 

Moulder'd away to nothing — darkly mixed 

With a great city-churchyard's dismal mould ! 

Where sleep in undistinguishable dust, 

Young, old, good, wicked, beauteous and deformed, 

Trodden under feet by ev'ry worthless thing 

Human and brute ! in dumb oblivion 

Laugh'd over daily by the passing crowd, 

Fresh shoals of wretches toiling for this world. 

— Wilmot 1 'tis hard to lay into the grave 

A countenance so benign ! a form that walk'd 

But yesterday so stately o'er the earth ! 

Wil. Long as he lay upon his bed, he seem'd 
Only a beauteous being stretch'd in sleep 
And I could look on him. But lying there, 
Shroudless and coffinless beside his grave ! • • • • 

Is it religious, Father ! thus to weep 

O'er a dead body ! sure his soul in heaven 
Must smile, (how well I know his tender smile) 



160 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

To see his friends in senseless misery 
Thus clinging to the dust. 

Priest. His soul in heaven 

Looks down with love on such a friend as thou ! 
Here take a blessing with these wither'd hands 
Laid on thy honour'd head. Thou wert a friend 
In the calm weather of prosperity, — 
And then the beauty of friendship shew'd in thee, 
Like a glad bark that by her consort's side 
Moved through the music of the element, 
A sunny cloud of sail. That consort sank — 
And now that lonely bark throughout the gloom, 
Labours with shatter'd masts, and sore-rent sails, 
Not without glory — though she could not save ! 
Forgive such image — but I see before me 
A living sailor and his best dead friend, 
And my soul dreams of the sea. 

WiU Oh ! who comes here ! 

[Enter Magdalene distractedly, followed by Isabel and 
the Child.] 

Magd. I heard a voice ring through my dreaming 
ear, 
" Haste Magdalene ! to the church-yard— they are 

burying 
" Thine own beloved Frankfort !" Tell me where 
Your cruel hands have laid my mariner ? 
He shall not lie in the cold grave to-night 
All by himself— Lo ! I his bride am here, 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. l6l 

And I will kiss his lips, even if the worm 
Should be my rival. I will rest my head 
Upon his breast than icy tombstone colder ! 
Aye ! the grave shall be my happy nuptial bed 
Curtain'd with black walls of the dripping clay. 
Where is he ? wretches ! have ye buried him ? 

Isabel, Oh ! must I tell thee— Magdalene ! to look 
round, 
That thou may est see thy Frankfort lying dead ! 
Behold thy sailor ! 

[Magdalene flings herself down on the body.~] 

Magd. Art thou still on earth ! 

O cold, cold kisses ! pale and breathless lips ! 
Are those sweet eyes indeed for ever clos'd ! 
— See ! see ! the garb in which he sail'd the deep ! 
—Thy voyaging all is o'er — thy harbour here ! 
Anchor'd thou art in everlasting rest, 
While over thee the billows of this world 
Are with unheeded fury raving on. 

Isabel. Hast thou one word for Isabel ? 

Magd. My sister ! 

My love for thee was perfect — -Wilmot ! Wilmot ! 
What art thou doing with that savage spade ? 
Ha ! digging Frankfort's grave ! — They shall not bury 

thee ! 
A thins so beautiful must not be buried* • • • 

[She faints upon the body."] 



162 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

Wilmot to the Priest* I leave the dying Lady to your 
care. 
My soul is strong in agony of love 
And unexampled sorrow — and since I 
Did undertake to dig my brothers grave, 
I will go on with it, until I reach 
His mother's coffin 1 

Voice from the Crowd, God will be his help. 
That one small grave — that one dead mariner — 
That dying Lady — and those wond'rous friends 
So calm, so lofty, yet compassionate- 
Do strike a deeper awe into our souls, 
A deeper human grief than yon wide pit 
With its unnumber'd corpses. 

Another Voice, Woe and death 

Have made that Angel bright their prey at last ! 
But yesterday I saw her heavenly face 
Becalm a shrieking room with one sweet smile ! 
For her, old age will tear his hoary locks, 
And childhood murmur forth her holy name 
Weeping in sorrowful dreams ! 

Another Voice, Her soft hand clos'd 

My children's eyes, — and when she turn'd to go, 
The beauty of her weeping countenance 
So sank into my heart, that I beheld 
The little corpses with a kind of joy, 
Assured by that compassionate Angel's smile 
That they had gone to heaven. 



Scene IV r . THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 163 

Magd. (recovering from her swootuj 'Tis cold ! cold \ 
cold! 
Colder than any living thing can bear ! 
— Have I been visiting my parents' grave, 
And fainted on a tombstone ? Who lies here ? 
— Frankfort what ails thee ? 
Isabel. Magdalene! Magdalene l 

Magd. Art thou the shadow of a blessed friend 
Still living on the earth ? 

Isabel. These tombstones tell 

And all these pale and mortal visages 
Magd. Is there a funeral ? 

Wilmot. Once I had a brother, 

But we have come to lay him in his grave ! 
Magd. No more ! no more ! 
Priest. The darkness leaves her 

brain ! 
Magd. All pain, all sorrow, and all earthly fear. 
Have left me now, and ye behold me lying 
In a deep joy beyond all happiness ! 
This corpse is beautiful, but 'tis only dust, 
And with this last embrace it is forgotten, 
And no more is among my dying thoughts. 
Priest. How her face kindles with the parting soul !" 
Magd. O gracious God ! how sweet ! how most* de- 
lightful 
To fade away into eternity 
With a clear soul !— So have I seen the shore— 



164 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III 

The soft green shore of my own native lake 
'Mid sunshine blended with the sleeping waters, 
In unobserved union fair and still ! 
O blessed lake ! » • • • think of me Isabel 
When thou art walking with that happy child 
Through its birch woods, or by yon whispering pines- 
Farewell ! • • • • that image • • • • Isabel ! farewell ! 

Wil. So clear a voice can ne'er be that of death ! 
She is recovering. 

Magd. Isabel ! look there ! 

Are those my Parents smiling at my side ! 
Fold your wings over me — gone — gone to heaven 
Are the bright Seraphs ! — Christ receive my soul ! 

{She diesJ] 
Priest* An Angel's pen must write thy epitaph, 
WiL Awful seems human nature in the tears 
That old age weeps. 

Priest. Forgive such tears ! — So young, 

So beautiful amid the opening world, 
Who would not weep for them ! 

Isabel. The world will weep, 

All the wide world will weep ! — I have been sitting 
On a high cloud above this woeful city, 
With a bright angel at my side. She falls 
Down from that sunny region, and my soul 
Is wandering now in helpless solitude 
Through miseries once seen far below my feet ! 
Priest. Oh ! hers will be a memorable name, 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. l65 

Famous in this city — over all the isle 
Devoutly breathed in hymns, — and oft invoked 
In lofty songs and odes to charity, — 
Sacred to childhood in its weeping dreams, 
By love — and sorrow — and pity saved for ever 
From dark oblivion, like the holy name 
Of tutelary Saint. 

Isabel, (with energy*) Aye ! it will live 
Among her native mountains — to all hearts 
Familiar music — and the holy house 
Where she was born will oft be visited 
By mute adorers, and its very dust, 
When time hath worn the lowly walls away, 
Untrod be held in endless reverence. 
Not unforgotten in our shepherds' songs 
The maid who far-off perish'd in the Plague ! 
The glens so well-belov'd will oft repeat 
The echo of her name ; and all in white 
An Angel will be seen to walk the vallies, 
Smiling with a face too beauteous to be fear'd 
On lonely maiden walking home at night 
Across the moonlight hills ! 

Priest. O faithful Isabel ! 

Is not this church -yard now a place of peace ? 

Isabel. Of perfect peace. My spirit looks with eyes 
Into the world to come. There Magdalene sits 
With them she lov'd on earth. — O mortal body 



166 THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. Act III. 

In faded beauty stretch'd upon the dust, 
I love thee still as if thou wert a soul ! • • • • 

Priest. Friends let us lift the body. 

Isabel. In my arms, 

Upon my bosom— close unto my heart 
Thus do I lift my Magdalene to her grave ! 
I kiss her brow — lier cheeks — her lips— her eye-lids—- 
Her most delightful hair ! I twine my arms 
Around her blessed neck— cold cold as ice ! 
I feel her whole frame in my sorrowful soul. 

Priest, Wilmot ! assist our friend 

Wit. (Starting.) The sound of waves 

Came for one moment o'er my friendless soul. 

Child, O might I go to sleep within the grave I 
With one so beautiful ! No ghost would come 
To frighten me on such a breast as this. 
The church-yard even at midnight would appear 
A place where one might sleep with happy dreams 
Where such an angel lay. O might I die 
Singing the hymn last night I heard her sing, 
And go with her to heaven. 

Isabel. Heaven bless the child ! 

Yes ! thou art blest in weeping innocence. 

WiL Here is the prayer-book clasp'd in Magdalene's 
hand, 
Let us kneel down while thy blest voice is reading 
The funeral-service. 



Scene IV. THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 167 

Isabel. Oh ! that fatal day 

On which we left our cottage ! Magdalene smiled 
Oh ! that sweet gleam of sunshine on the lake ! • • • • 

Priest. Are we all prepar'd to hear the service read ? 

Isabel. All ! Come thou sweet child ! kneel thou at 
my side ! 
Hush ! sob not— for they now are Spirits in heaven ! 



END OF THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 



How calm and beautiful the frosty Night 
Has stoPn unnotic'd like the hush of sleep 
O'er Grassm ere- vale ! Beneath the mellowing light, 
How sinks in softness every rugged steep i 
The old Church-tower a solemn watch doth keep, 
O'er the sweet Village she adorns so well ; 
Faintly the freezing stream is heard to weep, 
Wild-murmuring far within its icy cell, 
And hark ! across the Lake, clear chimes the Chapel- 
bell. 

Soon will the Moon and all her Stars be here : 
A stealing light proclaims her o'er yon hill ! 
Slowly she raiseth up her radiant sphere, 
And stillness, at her smile, becomes more still. 
My heart forgets all thoughts of human ill, 
And man seems happy as his place of birth : 
All things that yield him joy my spirit fill 
With kindred joy ; and ev'n his humblest mirth 
Seems, at this peaceful hour, to beautify the Earth, 



1/2 THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 

Beyond this vale my fancy may not fly, 

Held by its circle in a magic chain j 

Of merry-making, aiid festivity, 

Even 'mid this moonlight-scene, shall be my strain. 

Nor gracious Nature ! when I wake again 

A hymn of loftier temper in thy praise, 

Wilt thou the Poet's homage-song disdain, — 

For Thou hast never listened to his lays, 

Who lov'd not lowly life and all its simple ways. 

Through many a vale how rang each snow-roof'd cot, 
This livelong day with rapture blithe and wild ! 
All thoughts but of the lingering eve forgot, 
Both by grave Parent, and light-hearted Child. 
Hail to the Night ! whose image oft beguiled 
Youth's transient sadness with a startling cheer ! 
The Ball-night this by younkers proudly styled ! 
The joy at distance bright, burns brighter near — 
Now smiles the happiest hour of all their happy year ! 

All day the earthen floors have felt their feet 
Twinkling quick measures to the liquid sound 
Of their own small-piped voices shrilly sweet, — 
As hand in hand they wheel'd their giddy round. 
Ne'er fairy-revels on the greensward mound 
To dreaming bard a lovelier shew display'd : — 
Titania's self did ne'er with lighter bound 



THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 173 

Dance o'er the diamonds of the dewy glade, 
Than danc'd, at peep of morn, mine own dear moun- 
tain-maid. 

Oft in her own small mirror had the gleam, 
The soften'd gleam of her rich golden hair, 
That o'er her white neck floated in a stream, 
Kindled to smiles that Infant's visage fair, 
Half-conscious she that beauty glistened there ! 
Oft had she glanced her restless eyes aside 
On silken sash so bright and debonnair, 
Then to her mother flown with leaf-like glide, 
Who kiss'd her cherub-head with tears of silent pride. 

But all these glad rehearsals now are o'er, 
And young and old in many a glittering throng, 
By tinkling copse-wood, and hill-pathway pour, 
Cheering the air with laughter and with song. 
Those first arriv'd think others tarrying long, 
And chide them smiling with a friendly jeer, 
" To let the music waste itself was wrong, 
" So stirringly it strikes upon the ear, 
" The lame might dance," they cry, ** the aged-deaf 
might hear." 

And lo ! the crowded ball-room is alive 
With restless motion, and a humming noise; 
Like on a warm spring-morn a sunny hive, 
When round their Queen the waking bees rejoice 



174 THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 

Sweet blends with graver tones the silvery voice 

Of children rushing eager to their seats ; 

The Master proud of his fair flock employs 

His guiding beck that due attention meets, — 

List ! through the silent room each anxious bosom beats J 

Most beautiful and touching is the scene ! 

More blissful far to me than Fancy's bower ! 

Arch'd are the walls with wreaths of holly green, 

Whose dark-red berries blush beside the flower 

That kindly comes to charm the w r intry hour, 

The Christmas rose ! the glory white as snow \ 

The dusky roof seems brighten'd by the power 

Of bloom and verdure mingling thus below, 

Whence many a taper-light sends forth a cheerful glow. 

There sit together, tranquilly arrayed, 

The Friends and Parents of the infant-band. 

A Mother nodding to her timid maid 

With cheering smiles — or beckoning with her hand, 

A sign of love the child doth understand. 

There, deeper thoughts the Father's heart employ : 

His features grave with fondness melting-bland, 

He asks his silent heart, with gushing joy, 

If all the vale can match his own exulting Boy. 

See ! where in blooming rows the children sit — 
All loving partners by the idle floor 






THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 175 

As yet divided — save where boy doth flit, 

Lightly as small wave running 'long the shore, 

To whisper something, haply said before, 

Unto the soft cheek of his laughing May ! 

The whiles the master eyes the opening door — 

And, fearing longer than one smile to stay, 

Turns on his noiseless heel, and jocund wheels away. 

O Band of living Flowers ! O taintless wreathe ! 
By nature nourish'd 'mid her mountain air ! 

sweet unfolding buds, that blush and breathe 
Of innocence and love ! I scarce may dare 

To gaze upon you ! — What soft gleams of hair ! 
What peaceful foreheads ! and what heavenly eyes ! 
Bosoms so sweet will never harbour care ; 
Such spiritual breath was never made for sighs i 
For you still breathe on Earth the gales of Paradise. 

But I will call you by your human name, — 
Children of Earth, of Frailty, and Distress ! 
Alternate objects ye of praise and blame ! 
The spell is broken — do I love you less ? 
Ah ! no ! — a deep'ning, mournful tenderness 
Yearns at my heart, e'en now when I behold 
What trivial joys the human soul can bless i 

1 feel a pathos that can ne'er be told 

Breath'd from yon mortal locks of pure ethereal gold. 



176 THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 

Where now that angel face — that fairy frame— - 
The joyful beauty of that burnish'd head 
That shining forth o'er all — a star-like flame — 
Once through this room admiring rapture shed ! 
Can that fair breast so full of life be dead ! 
All mute those ruddy lips whose dewy balm 
As if through breathing flowers sweet music shed ! 
Those bounding limbs chain'd now in endless calm— 
—For her last Sabbath-day was sung the funeral psalm ! 

One reverend head I miss amid the throng — ■ 

'Tis bowed in sorrow o'er his cottage hearth ! 

The tread of dancing feet — the voice of song — 

The gladsome viol — and the laugh of mirth 

To him seem mockery on this lonesome earth. 

Rich in one child— he felt as if his store 

Of bliss might never yield to mortal dearth — 

But dry the cup of joy that once ran o'er ! 

— Now that grey-headed man is poorest of the poor. 

That was a stirring sound — my heart feels light 
Once more, and happy as a lamb at play. 
At music such as this — pale thought takes flight— 
It speaks of Scotland too — a dear strathspey ! 
No vulgar skill the Master doth display — 
The living bow leaps dancing o'er the strings*- 
The wrinkled face of Age is bright as day — 



THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 177 

While each glad child in fancied measure springs, 
And feels as if through air he skimm'd on flying wings. 

A hush of admiration chains the breath, 
And calms the laughing features of us all ; 
The room, erewhile so loud, is still as death — - 
For lo ! the Infant-monarchs of the ball 
Rise from their seats, rejoicing at the call, 
And move soft-gliding to their proper place ! 
He in his triumph rising straight and tall ; 
She light of air, and delicate of face, 
More bright through fear's faint shade her wild uncon- 
scious grace. 

Towards each other their delighted eyes 

They smiling turn, and all, at once, may tell 

From their subdued and sinless ecstasies 

That these fair children love each other well. 

They sport and play in the same native dell, 

There, each lives happy in a shelter'd nest ; 

And though the children of our vales excel 

In touching beauty — far above the rest 

Shine forth this starlike pair — the loveliest and the best. 

Like a faint shadow falls the pride of youth 
O'er faces sparkling yet with childhood's light- 
Joy, friendship, fondness, innocence and truth, 
That blushing maiden to her Boy unite 



178 THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 

More than a brother dear ! Aye — this glad night 

Across their quiet souls will often move, 

A spot of vernal sunshine ever bright ! 

When through youth's fairy-land no more they rove, 

And feel that Grief oft sits beside her sister Love. — 

But lo ! their graceful salutations lend 

A mutual boldness to each beating heart ; 

Up strikes the tune — suspense is at an end — 

Like fearless forest-fawns away they start ! 

How wildly nature now combines with art ! 

The motions of the infant mountaineer, 

Wont o'er the streams and up the hills to dart 

Subdued by precept and by music here, 

Enthral the admiring soul at once through eye and ear ! 

Like sunbeams glancing o'er a meadow-field, 
From side to side the airy spirits swim. 
What keen and kindling rapture shines reveal'd 
Around their eyes, and moves in every limb ! 
See ! how they twine their flexile arms so slim, 
In graceful arches o'er their hanging hair, 
Whose ringlets for a while their eyes bedim. 
The music stops — they stand like statues there — ■ 
Then parting glide away on noiseless steps of air. 

And now a ready hand hath round them thrown 
A flowing garland, for their beauteous Queen 



THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 179 

Wreath'd by her playmates — roses newly blown 

White-clustering 'mid the ivy's vivid green. 

Enfolded thus in innocence, they lean 

Their silky heads in inclination dear, 

Their blent locks fluttering through the space between, — ■ 

And do they not, advancing thus, appear 

Like Angels sent by Spring to usher in the year i 

Their movements every instant lighter grow. 
Motion to them more easy seems than rest : 
Their cheeks are tinged with a diviner glow — - 
Their gleaming locks a perfect bliss attest. 
Now is the triumph of their art confest 
By rising murmurs, and soft-rustling feet, 
All round th' admiring room — they cease — opprest 
With a pride-mingled shame — and to their seat 
Fly off, 'mid thundering praise, with bosoms fluttering 
sweet. 

Around their Queen her loving playmates press, 
Proud of her dancing, as it were their own 5 
With voices trembling through their tenderness, 
Like to the flute's low tones when sweetly blown I 
Envy to their pure breasts is yet unknown 5 
Too young and happy for a moment's guile ! 
There Innocence still sacred keeps her throne, 
Well-pleas'd, in that calm hold, to see the while 
Lingering on human lips an unpolluted smile. 



180 THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 

Ah me ! that Bards in many a lovely lay, 

Forgetting all their own delightful years, 

Should sing that life is but one little day, 

And this most blessed world the vale of tears I 

Even in such songs mysterious truth appears : 

We weep — forget— or muse resign'd on death — 

But oh ! that those inevitable years 

The soul should sully with bedim mi ng breath, 

And prove how vain a dream is all our childhood's faith ! 

Go to thy mother's arms thou blessed thing ! 

And in her yearning bosom hide thy head : 

Behold ! how bliss resembleth sorrowing ! 

When smiles are glistening — why should tears be shed ! 

Nor, grey-hair'd man ! art thou dishonoured 

By those big drops that force at last their way 

Down thy grave wrinkled face — when thou art dead, 

That child thou knowest will weep upon thy clay — 

Thus fathers oft are sad when those they love are gay. 

But why should merriment thus feel alloy, 
Sanction'd by Nature though such sadness be ? 
— Look on yon Figure ! how he swells with joy ! 
With head- erecting pride and formal glee I 
And may a Poet dare to picture thee, 
As stiff thou walk'st thy pupils sly among ; 
While roguish elf doth ape thy pedantry ? 
Loudly, I trow, would bark the critic throng, 
If vulgar name like thine should slip into my song. 



THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. m 

And yet thou shalt not go without the meed 
Of well earn'd praise — one tributary line: 
And haply as I tune my simple reed, 
Such theme the pastoral muse may not decline. 
Nor vain nor useless is a task like thine — 
That, ere the gleams of life's glad morning fly, 
Bids native grace with fresh attractions shine, 
Taming the wild— emboldening the shy — 
And still its end the same — the bliss of infancy ! 

Nor think the coldest spirit could withstand 

The genial influence breath'd, like balm from heaven, 

From rosy childhood, in a vernal band 

Dancing before him every happy Even. 

When through the gloom their gliding forms are driven, 

Like soft stars hurrying through the airy mist, 

Unto his heart paternal dreams are given, 

And in the bliss of innocent beauty blest, 

Oft hath that simple man their burnish'd ringlets kist. 

No idle, worthless, wandering man is he, 

But in this vale of honest parents bred : 

Train'd to a life of patient industry, 

He with the lark in summer leaves {lis bed, 

Through the sweet calm by morning twilight shed, 

Walking to labour by that cheerful song. 

And, making now pure pleasure of a trade, 



182 THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 

When Winter comes, with nights so dark and long, 
'Tis his to train to grace the smiling infant throng. 

And he, I ween, is aye a welcome guest 
In every cottage-home on hill and vale ; 
And oft by matron grave is warmly prest 
To honour with his praise her home-brew'd ale. 
Smiles the grown maid her master to regale, 
Mindful of all his kindness when a child, 
Invited thus, the master may not fail 
To laud with fitting phrase the liquor mild, 
And prays that heaven may bless the cottage on the 
wild. 

O fair the mazy dance that breaks my dream ! 
Heaven dawns upon me as I starting wake ! 
A flight of fancy this — a frolic whim — 
A mirthful tumult in which all partake. 
So dance the sunny atoms o'er a lake ; 
So small clouds blend together in the sky 5 
So when the evening gales the grove forsake, 
The radiant lime-leaves twinkle yet on high, 
So flutter new-fledg'd birds to their own melody. 

Through bright confusion order holds her reign, 
And not one infant there but well doth know 
By cunning rules her station to regain, 



THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. a S3 

And fearless of mistakes to come and go. 

Yet did the master no deep pains bestow 

On these small Elves so docile, and so true 

To tune and figure. Nature wuTd it so, 

Who fram'd to grace their stature as it grew, 

And train'd their fairy feet among the morning dew. 

True that, in polish'd life, refinement sheds 

A fragile elegance o'er childhood's frame, — 

And in a trembling lustre steeps their heads, 

A finer charm, a grace without a name. 

There, culture kindly breathes on nature's flame 5 

And angel beauty owns her genial sway. 

But oh ! too oft doth dove-eyed Pity claim 

The unconscious victims dancing light and gay, 

For sickness lends that bloom, the symbol of decay. 

Here Health, descending from her mountain-throne, 
Surveys with rapture yon delighted train 
Of rosy Sprites, by day and night her own, 
Though mortal creatures, strangers yet to pain ! 
For she hath taught them up the hills to strain, 
Following her foot-prints o'er the dewy flowers, 
Light as the shadows flitting o'er the plain, 
Soon as the earth salutes the dawning hours 
With song and fragrance pour'd from all her glitt'ring 
bowers. 



184 THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 

Nor deem to gilded roofs alone confin'd 
The magic charm of manners mild and free ; 
Attendant mostly they on peace of mind, 
Best cherish'd by the breath of purity. 
Yea ! oft in scenes like this of rustic glee, 
Where youth, and joy, and innocence resort, 
The Manners gladly rule the revelry, 
Unseen, they mingle in the quickening sport, 
Well pleased 'mid village-hinds to hold their homely 
court. 

See ! with what tenderness of mien, voice, eye, 

Yon little stripling, scarce twelve summers old, 

Detains his favourite partner gliding by, 

Becoming, as she smiles, more gaily bold ! 

'Tis thus the pleasures of our youth unfold 

The fairest feelings of the human heart ; * 

Nor, o'er our heads when silvering years are rolled, 

Will the fond image from our fancy part, 

But clings tenacious there 'mid passion, pride, and art. 

Aye ! nights like this are felt o'er many a vale ! 
Their sweet remembrance mocks the drifted snow 
That chokes the cottage up, — it bids the hail 
With cheerful pattering 'gainst the panes to blow. 
Hence, if the town-bred traveller chance to go 
Into the mountain-dwellings of our poor, x 

The peasants greet with unembarrass'd brow 



THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 185 

The splendid stranger honouring thus their door, 
And lead his steps with grace along the rushy floor. 

But now the lights are waxing dim and pale, 
And shed a fitful gleaming o'er the room ; 
'Mid the dim hollies one by one they fail, 
Another hour, and all is wrapt in gloom. 
And lo ! without, the cold, bright stars illume 
The cloudless air, so beautiful and still, 
While proudly placed in her meridian dome 
Night's peerless Queen the realms of heaven doth fill 
With peace and joy, and smiles on each vast slumbering 
hill. 

The dance and music cease their blended glee, 

And many a wearied infant hangs her head, 

Dropping asleep upon her mother's knee, 

Worn out with joy, and longing for her bed. 

Yet some lament the bliss too quickly fled, 

And fain the dying revels would prolong — 

Loth that the parting " Farewell," should be said, 

They round the Master in a circle throng, — 

Unmoved, alas 1 he stands their useless prayers among. 

And now an old man asks him, ere they go, 
If willing he a parting tune to play — 
One of those Scottish tunes so sweet and slow ! 
And proud is he such wishes to obey. 



J 86 THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 

Then " Auld lang syne" the wild and mournful lay 
Ne'er breathed through human hearts unmoved by 

tears, 
Wails o'er the strings, and wailing dies away ! 
While tremblingly his mellow voice he rears, 
Ah me ! the aged weep to think of former years ! 

Now rising to depart, each Parent pays 

Some compliment well-suited to his ear — 

Couch'd, through their warmth of heart, in florid phrase, 

Yet, by a parent's honest hopes, sincere ! 

They trust to meet him all another year, 

If gracious heaven to them preserve the boon 

Of life and health — and now with tranquil cheer, 

Their hearts still touched with that delightful tune, 

Homeward they wend along beneath the silent moon. 

O'er Loughrig- cliffs I see one party climb, 
Whose empty dwellings through the hush'd midnight 
Sleep in the shade of Langdale-pikes sublime — 
Up Dummail-Raise, unmindful of the height, 
His daughter in his arms, with footsteps light 
The father walks, afraid lest she should wake ! 
Through lonely Easdale past yon cots so white 
On Helm-crag side, their journey others take 5 
And some to those sweet homes that smile by Rydal 
lake. 



THE CHILDREN'S DANCE. 187 

He too, the Poet of this humble show, 

Silent walks homeward through the hour of rest — 

While quiet as the depth of spotless snow, 

A pensive calm contentment fills his breast ! 

O wayward man ! were he not truly blest ! 

That Lake so still below — that Sky above ! 

Unto his heart a sinless Infant prest, 

Whose ringlets like the glittering dew-wire move, 

Floating and sinking soft amid the breath of love ! 



ADDRESS 

TO A 

WILD DEER 

IN THE FOREST OF DALNESS, GLEN-ETIVE, AR- 
GYLLSHIRE. 



Magnificent Creature ! so stately and bright ! 
In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight ; 
For what hath the child of the desert to dread, 
Wafting up his own mountains that far-beaming head ; 
Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale ? — 
— Hail ! King of the wild and the beautiful ! — hail ! 
Hail ! Idol divine ! — whom Nature hath borne 
O'er a hundred hill-tops since the mists of the morn, 
Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain and 

moor, 
As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore ; 
For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free 
Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee. 

Up ! up to yon cliff ! like a King to his throne ! 
O'er the black silent forest piPd lofty and lone — 



ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 189 

A throne which the eagle is glad to resign 
Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. 
There the bright heather springs up in love of thy 

breast — 
Lo ! the clouds in the depth of the sky are at rest, 
And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill ! 
In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers lie still — 
Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight, 
Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height. 
One moment— thou bright Apparition ! — delay ! 
Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day. 

Aloft on the weather-gleam, scorning the earth, 
The wild spirit hung in majestical mirth : 
In dalliance with danger, he bounded in bliss, 
O'er the fathomless gloom of each moaning abyss ; 
O'er the grim rocks careering with prosperous motion, 
Like a ship by herself in full sail o'er the ocean ! 
Then proudly he turn'd ere he sank to the dell, 
And shook from his forehead a haughty farewell, 
While his horns in a crescent of radiance shone, 
Like a flag burning bright when the vessel is gone. 

The ship of the desert hath pass'd on the wind, 
And left the dark ocean of mountains behind ! 
But my spirit will travel wherever she flee, 
And behold her in pomp o'er the rim of the sea — 



1Q0 ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 

Her voyage pursue — till her anchor be cast 
In some cliff-girdled haven of beauty at last. 

What lonely magnificence stretches around ! 

Each sight how sublime ! and how awful each sound I 

All hush'd and serene, as a region of dreams, 

The mountains repose 'mid the roar of the streams,— 

Their glens of black umbrage by cataracts riven, 

But calm their blue tops in the beauty of Heaven. 

Here the glory of nature hath nothing to fear — 

— Aye ! Time the destroyer in power hath been here ; 

And the forest that hung on yon mountain so high, 

Like a black thunder cloud on the arch of the sky, 

Hath gone, like that cloud, when the tempest came by. 

Deep sunk in the black moor, all worn and decay'd, 

Where the floods have been raging, the limbs are dis- 

play'd 
Of the Pine-tree and Oak sleeping vast in the gloom, — 
The kings of the forest disturb'd in their tomb. 

E'en now, in the pomp of their prime, I behold 
Overhanging the desart the forests of old ! 
So gorgeous their verdure, so solemn their shade, 
Like the heavens above them, they never may fade. 
The sunlight is on them — in silence they sleep — 
A glimmering glow, like the breast of the deep, 
When the billows scarce heave in the calmness of morn. 
— Down the pass of Glen-Etive the tempest is borne, — 



ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 191 

And the hill side is swinging, and roars with a sound 
In the heart of the forest embosom'd profound. 
Till all in a moment the tumult is o'er, 
And the mountain of thunder is still as the shore 
When the sea is at ebb ; not a leaf nor a breath 
To disturb the wild solitude, steadfast as death. 

Prom his eyrie the eagle hath soar'd with a scream, 
And I wake on the edge of the cliff from my dream $ 
— Where now is the light of thy far-beaming brow ? 
Fleet son of the wilderness ! where art thou now ? 
— Again o'er yon crag thou return'st to my sight, 
Like the horns of the moon from a cloud of the night I 
Serene on thy travel — as soul in a dream — 
Thou needest no bridge o'er the rush of the stream. 
With thy presence the pine-grove is fill'd, as with light, 
And the caves, as thou passest, one moment are bright, 
Through the arch of thelrainbow that lies on the rock 
'Mid the mist stealing up from the cataract's shock, 
Thou fling'st thy bold beauty, exulting and free, 
O'er a pit of grim blackness, that roars like the sea. 

— His voyage is o'er ! — As if struck by a spell 
He motionless stands in the hush of the dell, 
There softly and slowly sinks down on his breast) 
In the midst of his pastime enamour'd of rest. 
A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race — 
A dancing ray chain'd to one sujnsluny place— 



192 ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER, 

A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven — 
A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven ! 

Fit couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee ! 
Magnificent prison enclosing the free ! 
With rock-wall encircled — with precipice crown'd — 
Which, awoke by the sun, thou can'st clear at a bound. 
'Mid the fern and the heather kind Nature doth keep 
One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep ; 
And close to that covert, as clear as the skies 
When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies, 
Where the creature at rest can his image behold 
Looking up through the radiance, as bright and as bold ! 
How lonesome ! how wild ! yet the wildness is rife 
With the stir of enjoyment — the spirit of life. 
The glad fish leaps up in the heart of the lake, 
Whose depths, at the sullen plunge, sullenly quake ! 
Elate on the fern-branch the grasshopper sings, 
And away in the midst of his roundelay springs ; 
'Mid the flowers of the heath, not more bright than 

himself, 
The wild-bee is busy, a musical elf — 
Then starts from his labour, unwearied and gay, 
And, circling the antlers, booms far far away. 
While high up the mountains, in silence remote, 
The cuckoo unseen is repeating his note, 
And mellowing echo, on watch in the skies, 
Like a voice from some loftier climate replies, 
1 



ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 193 

With wide-branching antlers a guard to his breast, 

There lies the wild Creature, even stately in rest ! 

'Mid the grandeur of nature, composed and serene, 

And proud in his heart of the mountainous scene, 

He lifts his calm eye to the eagle and raven, 

At noon sinking down on smooth wings to their haven, 

As if in his soul the bold Animal smil'd 

To his friends of the sky, the joint-heirs of the wild. 

Yes ! fierce looks thy nature, ev 'n hush'd in repose — 
In the depth of thy desert regardless of foes. 
Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar 
With a haughty defiance to come to the war ! 
No outrage is war to a creature like thee ! 
The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee, 
As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind, -3 
And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. 
In the beams of thy forehead that glitter with death, 
In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath, — 
In the wide-raging torrent that lends thee its roar, — 
In the cliff that once trod must be trodden no more, — 
Thy trust — 'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign ! 
—But what if the stag on the mountain be slain ? 
On the brink of the rock — lo ! he standeth at bay 
Like a victor that falls at the close of the day — 
While hunter and hound in their terror retreat 
From the death that is spurn'd from his furious feet : 



194 ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 

And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies, 
As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. 

High life of a hunter ! he meets on the hill 

The new waken* d daylight, so bright and so still ; 

And feels, as the clouds of the morning unroll, 

The silence, the splendour, ennoble his soul. 

'Tis his o'er the mountains to stalk like a ghost, 

Enshrouded with mist, in which nature is lost, 

Till he lifts up his eyes, and flood, valley, and height, 

In one moment all swim in an ocean of light ; 

While the sun, like a glorious banner unfurl'd, 

Seems to wave o'er a new, more magnificent world. 

'Tis his — by the mouth of some cavern his seat — 

The lightning of heaven to hold at his feet, 

While the thunder below him, that growls from the 

cloud, 
To him comes on echo more awfully loud. 
When the clear depth of noon-tide, with glittering mo- 
tion, 
O'erflows the lone glens — an aerial ocean — 
When the earth and the heavens, in union profound, 
Lie blended in beauty that knows not a sound— 
As his eyes in the sunshiny solitude close 
'Neath a rock of the desert in dreaming repose, 
He sees, in his slumbers, such visions of old 
As his wild Gaelic songs to his infancy told ; 



ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. if) 5 

O'er the mountains a thousand plum'd hunters are borne, 
And he starts from his dream at the blast of the horn. 

Yes ! child of the desert ! fit quarry were thou 

For the hunter that came with a crown on his brow, — 

By princes attended with arrow and spear, 

In their white-tented camp, for the warfare of deer. 

In splendour the tents on the green summit stood, 

And brightly they shone from the glade in the wood, 

And, silently built by a magical spell, 

The pyramid rose in the depth of the dell. 

All mute was the palace of Lochy that day, 

When the king and his nobles — a gallant array — 

To Gleno or Glen-Etive came forth in their pride, 

And a hundred fierce stags in their solitude died. 

Not lonely and single they pass'd o'er the height — 

But thousands swept by in their hurricane-flight ; 

And bow'd to the dust in their trampling tread 

Was the plumage on many a warrior's head. 

— " Fall down on your faces ! — the herd is at hand !" 

—And onwards they came like the sea o'er the sand ; 

Like the snow from the mountain when loosen'd by 

rain, 
And rolling along with a crash to the plain ; 
Like a thunder-split oak-tree, that falls in one shock c 
With his hundred wide arms from the top of the rock, 
Like the voice of the sky, when the black cloud is near, 
So sudden, so loud, came the tempest of Deer. 



196 ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. 

Wild mirth of the desert ! fit pastime for kings ! 
Which still the rude Bard in his solitude sings. 
Oh reign of magnificence ! vanished for ever ! 
Like music dried up in the bed of a river, 
Whose course hath been chang'd ! yet my soul can sur- 
vey 
The clear cloudless morn of that glorious day. 
Yes ! the wide silent forest is loud as of yore, 
And the far-ebbed grandeur rolls back to the shore. 

I wake from my trance ! — lo ! the Sun is declining ! 
And the Black-mount afar in his lustre is shining, 
— One soft golden gleam ere the twilight prevail ! 
Then down let me sink to the cot in the dale, 
Where sings the fair maid to the viol so sweet, 
Or the floor is alive with her white twinkling feet. 
Down, down like a bird to the depth of the dell ! 
— Vanish'd Creature ! I bid thy far image farewell ! 



THE 



VOICE OF DEPARTED FRIENDSHIP. 



I had a Friend who died in early youth ! 
— And often in those melancholy dreams, 
When my soul travels through the umbrage deep 
That shades the silent world of memory, 
Methinks I hear his voice ! Sweet as the breath 
Of balmy ground- flowers stealing from some spot 
Of sunshine sacred, in a gloomy wood r 
To everlasting spring. 

In the church-yard 
Where now he sleeps — the day before he died, 
Silent we sat together on a grave ; 
Till gently laying his pale hand on mine, 
Pale in the moonlight that was coldly sleeping 
On heaving sod and marble monument,— 
This was the music of his last farewell ! 
" Weep not my brother ! though thou seest me led 
" By short and easy stages, day by day, 



98 THE VOICE OF DEPARTED FRIENDSHIP. 

* With motion almost imperceptible 

« Into the quiet grave. God's will be done. 
' Even when a boy, in doleful solitude 

* My soul oft sat within the shadow of death ! 

* And when I look'd along the laughing earth, 

* Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air 
i Joyfully ringing with the sky-lark's song, 

1 I wept ! and thought how sad for one so young 
( To bid farewell to so much happiness. 
« But Christ hath calPd me from this lower world, 
6 Delightful though it be — and when I gaze 
1 On the green earth and all its happy hills, 

* 'Tis with such feelings as a man beholds 

' A little Farm which he is doom'd to leave 
1 On an appointed day. Still more and more 

* He loves it as that mournful day draws near, 

' But hath prepar'd his heart — and is resign'd." 
— Then lifting up his radiant eyes to heaven, 
He said with fervent voice — " O what were life 
" Even in the warm and summer-light of joy 
<c Without those hopes, that like refreshing gales 
" At evening from the sea, come o'er the soul 
" Breath'd from the ocean of eternity. 
" • — And oh ! without them who could bear the storms 
" That fall in roaring blackness o'er the waters 
" Of agitated life ! Then hopes arise 
" All round our sinking souls, like those fair birds 
" O'er whose soft plumes the tempest hath no power, 



THE VOICE OF DEPARTED FRIENDSHIP. jqq 

" Waving their snow-white wings amid the darkness, 

" And wiling us with gentle motion, on 

" To some calm island ! on whose silvery strand 

" Dropping at once, they fold their silent pinions, — 

u And as we touch the shores of paradise 

" In love and beauty walk around our feet !" 






LORD RONALD'S CHILD. 



Three days ago Lord Ronald's child 
Was singing o'er the mountain-wild, 
Among the sunny showers 
That brought the rainbow to her sight, 
And bathed her footsteps in the light 
Of purple heather-flowers. 
But chilly came the evening's breath — 
The silent dew was cold with death — 
She reached her home with pain ; 
And from the bed where now she lies, 
With snow-white face and closed eyes, 
She ne'er must rise again. 

Still is she as a frame of stone, 

That in its beauty lies alone, 

With silence breathing from its face, 

For ever in some holy place ! 

Chapel or aisle ! on marble laid — 

With pale hands o'er its pale breast spread- 



LORD RONALD'S CHILD. 20 1 



An image humble, meek and low, 
Of one forgotten long ago ! 

Soft feet are winding up the stair — 

And lo ! a Vision passing fair ! 

All dress'd in white — a mournful show- 

A band of orphan children come, 

With footsteps like the falling snow, 

To bear to her eternal home 

The gracious Lady who look'd down 

With smiles on their forlorn estate — 

— But Mercy up to heaven is gone, 

And left the friendless to their fate. 

They pluck the honeysuckle's bloom, 
That through the window fills the room 
W T ith mournful odours — and the rose 
That in its innocent beauty glows, 
Leaning its dewy golden head 
Towards the pale face of the dead, 
Weeping like a thing forsaken 
Unto eyes that will not waken. 

All bathed in pity's gentle showers 
They place these melancholy flowers 
Upon the cold white breast ! 
And there they lie ! profoundly calm 1 
Ere long to fill with fading balm 
A place of deeper rest ! 



202 LORD RONALDS CHILD. 

By that fair Band the bier is borne 
Into the open light of morn, — 
And, till the parting dirge be said, 
Upon a spot of sunshine laid 
Beneath a grove of trees i 
Bowed and uncovered every head — 
Bright-tressed youth — and hoary age — 
— Then suddenly before the dead 
Lord Ronald's gathered vassalage 
Fall down upon their knees ! 

Glen-Etive and its mountains lie 

All silent as the depth profound 

Of that unclouded sunbright sky — 

— Low heard the melancholy sound 

Of waters murmuring by. 

— Glides softly from the orphan-band 

A weeping Child, and takes her stand 

Close to the Lady's feet — 

Then wildly sings a funeral hymn ! 

With overflowing eyes and dim 

Fix'd on the winding-sheet !— 

HYMN. 

O beautiful the streams 

That through our vallies run, 

Singing and dancing in the gleams 
Of summer's cloudless sun. 



LORD RONALD'S CHILD. 203 

The sweetest of them all 

From its fairy banks is gone ; 
And the music of the waterfall 

Hath left the silent stone ! 

Up among the mountains 

In soft and mossy cell, 
By the silent springs and fountains 

The happy wild-flowers dwell. 

The queen-rose of the wilderness 

Hath wither'd in the wind, 
And the shepherds see no loveliness 

In the blossoms left behind. 

Birds cheer our lonely groves 

With many a beauteous wing — 
When happy in their harmless loves 

How tenderly they sing. 

O'er all the rest was heard 

One wild and mournful strain, 
— But hush'd is the voice of that hymning bird, 

She ne'er must sing again ! 

Bright through the yew-trees gloom, 

I saw a sleeping dove ! 
On the silence of her silvery plume, 

The sunlight lay in love. 



204 LORD RONALD'S CHILD. 

The grove seem'd all her own 

Round the beauty of that breast — 

— But the startled dove afar is flown ! 
Forsaken is her nest ! 

In yonder forest wide 

A flock of wild-deer lies, 
Beauty breathes o'er each tender side, 

And shades their peaceful eyes ! 

The hunter in the night 

Hath singled out the doe, 
In whose light the mountain-flock lay bright, 

Whose hue was like the snow ! 

A thousand stars shine forth, 

With pure and dewy ray- 
Till by night the mountains of our north 

Seem gladdening in the day. 

O empty all the heaven ! 

Though a thousand lights be there — 
For clouds o'er the evening- star are driven, 

And shorn her golden hair ! 

That melancholy music dies — 

And all at once the kneeling crowd 

Is stirr'd with groans, and sobs, and sighs — 



LORD RONALD'S CHILD. 205 

As sudden blasts come rustling loud 

Along the silent skies. 

— Hush ! hush ! the dirge doth breathe again ! 

The youngest of the orphan train 

Walks up unto the bier, 

With rosy cheeks, and smiling eyes 

As heaven's unclouded radiance clear - 9 

And there like Hope to Sorrow's strain 

With dewy voice replies. 

— What ! though the stream be dead, 

Its banks all still and dry ! 
It murmureth now o'er a lovelier bed 

In the air-groves of the sky. 

What ! though our prayers from death 
The queen-rose might not save ! 

With brighter bloom and balmier breath 
She springeth from the grave. 

What ! though our bird of light 

Lie mute with plumage dim ! 
In heaven I see her glancing bright— 

I hear her angel hymn. 

What ! though the dark tree smile 
No more — with our dove's calm sleep 

She folds her wing on a sunny isle 
In heaven's untroubled deep ! 



206 LORD RONALD'S CHILD. 

True that our beauteous doe 
Hath left her still retreat — 

But purer now in heavenly snow 
She lies at Jesus' feet. 

O star ! untimely set ! 

Why should we weep for thee ! 
Thy bright and dewy coronet 

Is rising o'er the sea ! 



THE WIDOW. 



The courtly hall is gleaming bright 

With fashion's graceful throng — 

All hearts are chain'd in still delight, 

For like the heaven-born voice of night 

Breathes Handel's sacred song. 

Nor on my spirit melts in vain 

The deep — the wild — the mournful strain 

That fills the echoing hall 

(Though many a callous soul be there) 

With sighs, and sobs, and cherish'd pain- 

— While on a face, as Seraph's fair, 

Mine eyes in sadness fall. 

Not those the tears that smiling flow 
As fancied sorrow bleeds, 
Like dew upon the rose's glow ; 
— That Lady 'mid the glitt'ring show 
Is cloth'd in widow's weeds. 



208 THE WIDOW. 

She sits in reverie profound, 
And drinks and lives upon the sound, 
As if she ne'er would wake ! 
Her clos'd eyes cannot hold the tears 
That tell what dreams her soul have bound- 
In memory they of other years 
For a dead husband's sake. 

Methinks her inmost soul lies spread 
Before my tearful sight — 
A garden whose best flowers are dead, 
A sky still fair (though darkened) 
With hues of lingering light. 
I see the varying feelings chase 
Each other o'er her pallid face, 
From shade to deepest gloom. 
She thinks on living objects dear, 
And pleasure lends a chearful grace ; 
But oh ! that look so dim and drear, 
— Her heart is in the tomb. 

Rivalling the tender crescent Moon 
The Star of evening shines — 
A warm, still, balmy night of June, 
Low-murmuring with a fitful tune 
From yonder grove of pines. 
In the silence of that starry sky, 
Exchanging vows of constancy, 



THE WIDOW. 209 



Two happy lovers stray. 
— To her how sad and strange ! to know, 
In darkness while the phantoms fade, 
That one a widow'd wretch is now, 
The other in the clay. 

A wilder gleam disturbs her eye. 
Oh ! hush the deep'ning strain ! 
And must the youthful Warrior die ? 
A gorgeous funeral passes by, 
The dead -march stuns her brain. 
The singing voice she hears no more, 
Across his grave the thunders roar ! 
How weeps yon gallant band 
O'er him their valour could not save ! 
For the bayonet is red with gore, 
And he, the beautiful and brave, 
Now sleeps in Egypt's sand. 

But far away in cloud and mist 
The ghastly vision swims. 
— Unto that dying cadence list ! 
She thinks the voices -of the blest 
Now chaunt their evening hymns. 
O for a dove's unwearied wing, 
That she might fly where angels sing 
Around the judgment-seat j 



210 THE WIDOW. 

That Spirit pure to kiss again, 
And smile at earthly sorrowing ! 
Wash'd free from every mortal stain, 
At Jesus' blessed feet. 

How longs her spirit to recal 

That prayer so vain and wild ! 

For, idly-wandering round the Hall, 

Her eyes are startled as they fall 

On her own beauteous' Child. 

Gazing on one so good and fair, 

Less mournful breathes that holy air, 

And almost melts to mirth : 

Pleas'd will she sojourn here a while, 

And see, beneath her pious care, 

In heaven's most gracious sunshine smile 

The sweetest Flower on earth. 

The song dies 'mid the silent strings, 

And the Hall is now alive 

With a thousand gay and fluttering things ; 

— The noise to her a comfort brings, 

Her heart and soul revive. 

With solemn pace and loving pride 

She walks by her fair daughter's side, 

Who views with young delight 

The gaudy sparkling revelry, — 

Unconscious that from far and wide 



THE WIDOW. 211 



On her is turn'd each charmed eye — 
— The Beauty of the night ! 

A Spirit she ! and Joy her name ! 

She walks upon the air ; 

Grace swims throughout her fragile frame, 

And glistens like a lambent flame 

Amid her golden hair. 

Her eyes are of the heavenly blue, 

A cloudless twilight bathed in dew $ 

The blushes on her cheek, 

Like the roses of the vernal year 

That lend the virgin snow their hue — 

— And oh ! what pure delight to hear 

The gentle Vision speak ! 

Yet dearer than that rosy glow 

To me yon cheek so wan ; 

Lovely I thought it long ago, 

But lovelier far now blanch'd with woe 

Like the breast-down of the swan. 

Then worship ye the sweet — the young — 

Hang on the witchcraft of her tongue, 

Wild- murmuring like the lute. 

On thee O Lady ! let me gaze, 

Thy soul is now a lyre unstrung, 

But I hear the voice of other days, 

Though these pale lips be mute. 



212 THE WIDOW. 

Lovely thou art ! yet none may dare 
That placid soul to move. 
Most beautiful thy braided hair, 
But awful holiness breathes there 
Unmeet for earthly love. 
More touching far than deep distress 
Thy smiles of languid happiness, 
That like the gleams of Even 
O'er thy calm cheek serenely play. 
— Thus at the silent hour we bless, 
Unmindful of the joyous day, 
The still sad face of Heaven. 



SOLITUDE. 



O vale of visionary rest ! 

— Hush'd as the grave it lies 

With heaving banks of tenderest green, 

Yet brightly, happily serene, 

As cloud-vale of the sleepy west 

Reposing on the skies. 

Its reigning spirit may not vary — 

What change can seasons bring 

Unto so sweet, so calm a spot, 

Where every loud and restless thing 

Is like a far-off dream forgot ? 

Mild, gentle, mournful, solitary, 

As if it aye were spring, 

And Nature lov'd to witness here 

The still joys of the infant year, 

'Mid flowers and music wandering glad, 

For ever happy, yet for ever sad. 

This little world how still and lone 
With that horizon of its own ! 



214 SOLITUDE, 

And, when in silence falls the night, 

With its own Moon how purely bright ! 

No shepherd's Cot is here — no Shealing 

Its verdant roof through trees revealing — 

No branchy covert like a nest, 

Where the weary woodmen rest, 

And their jocund carols sing 

O'er the fallen Forest- King, 

Inviolate by human hand 

The fragrant white-stem'd birch- trees stand, 

With many a green and sunny glade 

'Mid their embowering murmurs made 

By gradual soft decay — 

Where stealing to that little lawn 

From secret haunt and half-afraid, 

The Doe, in mute affection gay, 

At elose of eve leads forth her fawn 

Amid the flowers to play. 

And in that dell's soft bosom, lo ! 

Where smileth up a cheerful glow 

Of water pure as air, 

A Tarn by two small streamlets spread 

In beauty o'er its waveless bed, 

Reflecting in that heaven so still 

The birch-grove mid-way up the hill, 

And summits green and bare. 

How lone ! beneath its veil of dew 
That morning's rosy fingers drew, 



SOLITUDE. 215 



Seldom shepherd's foot hath prest 

One primrose in its sunny rest. 

The sheep at distance from the spring 

May here her lambkins chance to bring, 

Sporting with their shadows airy, 

Each like tiny Water-Fairy 

Imaged in the lucid lake ! 

The hive-bee here doth sometimes make 

Music, whose sweet murmurings tell, 

Of his shelter'd straw-roof 'd cell, 

Standing 'mid some garden gay, 

Near a cottage far away. 

By the lake- side, on a stone 

Stands the Heron all alone, 

Still as any lifeless thing ! 

Slowly moves his laggard wing, 

And cloud-like floating with the gale 

Leaves at last the quiet vale. 



BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 



[These orphans having attended the funeral of an aged wo- 
man with whom they had lived, retire from their native 
village, now desolated by the Plague, to a solitary glen. See 
the old Ballad that bears their names.] 

The grave is filPd and the turf is spread 

To grow together o'er the dead. 

The little daisies bright and fair 

Are looking up scarce injured there, 

And one warm night of summer-dew 

Will all their wonted smiles renew, 

Restoring to its blooming rest 

A soft couch for the sky-lark's breast. 

The funeral-party, one by one 

Have given their blessing and are gone- — 

Prepared themselves ere long to die, 

A small, sad, silent company. 

The orphans robed in spotless white 



BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 217 

Yet linger in the holy ground, 

And shed all o'er that peaceful mound 

A radiance like the wan moonlight. 

— Then from their mother's grave they glide 

Out of the church-yard side by side. 

Just at the gate they pause and turn — 

I hear sad blended voices mourn 

II Mother farewell !" the last endeavour 
To send their souls back to the clay. 
Then they hide their eyes —and walk away 
From her grave — now and for ever ! 

Not till this parting invocation 

To their mother's buried breast, 

Had they felt the power of desolation ! 

Long as she lived, the village lay 

Calm — unrepining in decay — 

For grief was its own consolation, 

And death seem'd only rest. 

— But now a dim and sullen breath 

Hath character'd the face of death ; 

And tears, and sighs, and sobs, and wailing, 

All round — o'er human joy prevailing — 

Or 'mid the pausing fits of woe, 

Wild silence, like a depth of snow 

Shrouding in slumber stern and dull 

The spring-fields late so beautiful, 

Upon their fainting spirits press 



218 BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 

With weight of utter hopelessness, 

And drive them off, they heed not where, 

So that oblivion's ebbless wave 

May lie for ever on one grave, 

One village of despair. 

Faint with such spectacles of woe 

Towards their solitary home 

Across the village-green they go — 

Eyeing the streamlet's murmuring flow, 

Where melt away the specks of foam, 

Like human creatures dying 

'Mid their voyage down life's peaceful stream 

Upon the bosom of a dream 

In thoughtless pleasure lying. 

Calm reveries of composing grief ! 

Whose very sadness yields relief 

To heart, and soul, and eye. 

The Orphans look around — and lo ! 

How touching is that Lilac's glow, 

Beneath the tall Laburnum's bow 

That dazzling spans the sky ! 

That golden gleam — that gentle fire 

Forces even anguish to admire ; 

And gently cheers away distress 

By the power of nature's loveliness. 

From many a little garden steal 

Odours that have been wasting long 



BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 219 

A sweetness there was none to feel ; 

And from the hidden flowers a song 

Of bees, in a happy multitude 

All busy in that solitude, 

An image brings of all the strife 

And gladness of superior life, 

Till man seem, 'mid these insects blest, 

A brother-insect hardly miss'd. 

They seize that transient calm ; the door 

Of their own cottage open stands — 

Far lonelier than one hour before, 

When they with weak and trembling hands 

The head of that dear coffin bore 

Unto its darksome bed ! 

To them far drearier than the tomb, 

The naked silence of the room 

Deserted by the dead. 

They kiss the dim and senseless walls, 

Then hurry fast away ; 

Some sudden thought their feet recals, 

And trifles urge their stay, 

Till with the violence of despair 

They rush into the open air, 

And bless its thatch and sheltering tree, 

Then leave it everlastingly ! 

— On, on they go, in sorrow blind, 

Yet with a still and gentle motion 



220 BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 

That speaks the inner soul resign'd. 
Like little billows o'er the ocean 
Still flowing on with tide and wind, 
And though the tempest smite their breast, 
Reaching at last some bay of rest. 

God bless them on their pilgrimage ! 
And may his hand divine 
With healing dew their woes assuage, 
When they have reach'd that silent shrine 
By nature fram'd in the open air, 
With soft turf for the knees of prayer, 
And dome of many a pastoral hill 
Lying in heaven serene and still. 
For, pilgrims ne'er to Sion went 
More mournful, or more innocent, 
Before the rueful cross to lie 
At midnight on Mount Calvary. 

Two favourite sheep before them go — 
Each with its lambs of spotless snow 
Frisking around with pattering feet, 
With peaceful eyes and happy bleat. 
Happy ! yet like a soft complaint ! 
As if at times the voice of sorrow 
Through the hush'd air came breathing faint 
From blessed things that fear no morrow. 
— Each Shepherdess holds in her hand 



BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 221 

A verdant crook of the willow-wand, 
Wreath'd round with melancholy flowers 
Gather'd 'mid the hills in happier hours. 
In a small cage a thrush is sitting — 
Or restless as the light 
That through his sunny prison plays, 
From perch to perch each moment flitting, 
His quick and glancing eye surveys 
The novel trees and fields so bright, 
And like a torrent gushing strong 
He sends through heaven his sudden song, 
A song that all dim thought destroys, 
And breathes o'er all its own wild joys. 

As on the Orphans hold their way 

Through the stillness of the dying day, 

Fairies might they seem who are returning, 

At the end of some allotted time, 

Unto their own immortal clime ! 

Each bearing in its lovely hand 

Some small memorial of the land 

Where they, like common human frames, 

And call'd by gentle Christian names, 

For long had been sojourning ! 

Some little fair insensate thing, 

Relic of that wild visiting ! 

Bird that beneath a brighter spring 

Of its own vanish'd earth will sing ; 



222 BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 

Those harmless creatures that will glide 
O'er faery vales in earthly snow, 
And from the faery river's flow 
Come forth more purely beautified. 

Now with a wild and mournful song 
The fair procession moves along, 
While, by that tune so sweet 
The little flock delighted, press 
As if with human tenderness 
Around the singer's feet. 
Up — up the gentle slope they wind, 
Leaving the laughing flowers behind 
That seem to court their stay. 
One moment on the top they stand, 
At the wild-unfolding vale's command, 
— Then down into that faery land 
Dream-like they sink away ! 



THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 



Why hang the sweet bells mute in Magdalen-Tower, 

Still wont to usher in delightful May, 

The dewy silence of the morning hour 

Cheering with many a changeful roundelay ? 

And those pure youthful voices where are they, 

That hymning far up in the listening sky, 

Seem'd issuing softly through the gates of day, 

As if a troop of sainted souls on high 

Were hovering o'er the earth with angel melody ? 

This day the pensive Choristers are mute, 
The Tower stands silent in the shades of woe, 
And well that darkness and those shadows suit 
The solemn hush shed o'er the courts below. 



On the First of May the Choristers ascend the beautiful Tower of 
Magdalen College, Oxford, and there sing a Latin hymn to the Season. 



224 THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 

There all is noiseless as a plain of snow, 
Nor wandering footstep stirs the echoing wall. 
Hark — hark ! the muffled bell is tolling slow ! 
Into my mournful soul its warnings fall — 
It is the solemn day of Vernon's funeral. 

No sound last night was heard these courts within, 
Save sleepless scholar sobbing in his cell ; 
For mirth had seem'd a sacrilegious sin 
Against the dead whom all did love so well. 
Only — at evening- prayer the holy swell 
Of organ at the close of service sent 
(While on their knees the awe-struck weepers fell, 
Or on the pi liar 'd shade in anguish leant) 
Through the dim echoing aisle a sorrowful lament. 

All night the melancholy moonshine slept 
O'er the lone chamber where his corpse was laid : 
Amid the sighing groves the cold dews wept, 
And the sad stars in glimmering beams array'd 
In heaven seem'd mourning o'er the parted shade 
Of him who knew the nature and the name 
Of every orb to human ken display'd, 
Whether on silent throne a steadfast flame, 
Or roll'd in music round the Universal Frame. 

And now the day looks mournful as the night, 
For all o'er heaven black clouds begin to roll, 



THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 225 

Through which the dim sun streams a fitful light 

In sympathy with man's desponding soul. 

Is nought around but images of dole ! 

The distant towers a kindred sorrow breathe, 

Struck 'mid their own groves by that dismal toll ; 

And the grey cloisters, coldly stretch'd beneath, 

Hush'd in profounder calm confess the power of death. 

Sad for the glory that hath parted thence, 
Through spire, tower, temple, theatre and dome 
Mourns Oxford in her old magnificence, 
Sublimely silent 'mid the sunless gloom. 
But chief one College weeps her favourite's doom— 
All hearts turn thither in the calm of morn ; 
Silent she standeth like one mighty tomb, 
In reverend beauty— desolate — forlorn— 
For her refulgent star is all-untimely shorn. 

Her courts grow darker as the hour draws near 
When that blest corpse must sink for evermore, 
Let down by loving hands to dungeon drear 
From the glad world of sunshine cover'd o'er 
By the damp pavement of the silent floor ! 
— Sad all around — as when a gentle day 
All dimly riseth o'er a wreck-strewn shore, 
When Love at last hath ceas'd to heaven to pray, 
And Grief hath wept her fill, and Hope turn'd sick 
away. 



226 THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 

Yea ! even a careless stranger might perceive 

That death and sorrow rule this doleful place — 

Passing along the grey-hair'd menials grieve, 

Nor is it hard a tender gloom to trace 

On the young chorister's sunshiny face, 

While slow returning from the mournful room 

Of friend where they were weeping o'er the days 

With Vernon past — profoundly sunk in gloom 

The pale-fac'd scholar walks, still dreaming of the tomb. 

Now ghastly sight and lowly-whispering sound 

On every side the sadden'd spirit meet — 

And notice give to all the courts around 

Of doleful preparation — the rude feet 

Of death's hir'd menials through this calm retreat 

With careless tread are hurrying to and fro — 

And loving hearts with pangs of anguish beat, 

To see the cloisters blackening all below 

With rueful sable plumes — a ghastly funeral-show. 

— Come let us now with silent feet ascend 
The stair that leads up to yon ancient tower — 
— There, lieth in his shroud my dearest friend ! 
Oh ! that the breath of sighs, the dewy shower 
Stream'd from so many eye-lids had the power 
Gently to stir, and raise up from its bed 
The broken stalk of that consummate flower ! 
Nought may restore the odours once when shed, 
That sunshine smiles in vain — it wakens not the dead ! 



THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 227 

Behold ! his parents kneeling side by side, 

Still as the body that is sleeping there ! 

Far off were they when their sweet Henry died, 

At once they fell from bliss into despair. 

What sorrows slumber in that silvery hair ! 

The old man groans, nor dares his face to show 

To the glad day-light — while a sobbing prayer 

Steals from the calmer partner of his woe, 

Who gently lays her hand upon those locks of snow. 

He lifts his eyes — quick through a parting cloud 

The sun looks out — and fills the room with light, 

Hath given a purer lustre to the shroud, 

And plays and dances o'er those cheeks so white. 

" Curst be the cruel Sun ! who shines so bright 

" Upon my dead boy's face ! one kiss — one kiss — 

" Before thou sink to everlasting night ! 

" My child — my child ! — oh ! how unlike to this 

" The last embrace I gave in more than mortal bliss." 

Pale as a statue bending o'er a tomb, 

The childless mother ! as a statue still ! 

But Resignation, Hope, and Faith illume 

Her upward eyes ! and her meek spirit fill 

With downy peace, which blasts of earthly ill V 

May never ruffle more — a smile appears 

At times to flit across her visage chill, 

More awful rendering every gush of tears 

Shed at the dark eclipse of all life's sunny years. 



228 THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL, 

The whole path from his cradle to his grave 

She travels back with a bewilder'd brain ! 

Bright in the gales of youth his free locks wave, 

As if their burnish'd beauty laugh'd at pain, 

And god-like claim'd exemption from the reign 

Of grief, decay, and death ! Her touch doth meet 

Lips cold as ice that ne'er will glow again, 

And lo ! from these wan lips unto his feet 

Drawn by the hand of death a ghostly winding-sheet i 

She hop'd to have seen him in yon hallow'd grove, 
With gay companions laughing at his side, 
And listening unto him whom all did love ! 
For she had heard with pure maternal pride 
How science to his gaze unfolded wide 
Her everlasting gates — but as he trod 
The Temple's inner shrine, he sank and died — 
And all of him that hath not gone to God 
Within her loving clasp lies senseless as the clod. 

With tottering steps she to the window goes. 

Oh ! what a glorious burst of light is there ! 

Rejoicing in his course the river flows, 

And 'neath its coronet of dark-blue air 

The stately Elm -grove rises fresh and fair, 

Blest in the dewy silence of the skies ! 

She looks one moment — then in blind despair 

Turns to the coffin where her Henry lies — 

—The green earth laughs in vain before his closed eyes ! 



THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 229 

The Old Man now hath no more tears to shed- 
Wasted are all his groans so long and deep — 
He looks as if he car'd not for the dead ! 
Or thought his Son would soon awake from sleep. 
An agony there is that cannot weep, 
That glares not on the visage, but is borne 
Within the ruin'd spirits dungeon-keep, 
In darkness and in silence most forlorn, 
Hugging the grave like gloom, nor wishing for the morn. 

Lo ! suddenly he starteth from his knees ! 

And hurrying up and down, all round the walls 

Glances wild looks — and now his pale hands seize, 

Just as the light on its expression falls, 

Yon picture, whose untroubled face recalls 

A smile for ever banish'd from the air ! 

** O dark ! my Boy ! are now thy Father's halls ! 

" But I will hang this silent picture there, 

" And morn and night will kneel before it in despair." 

With trembling grasp he lifts the idle gown 

Worn by his Son — then closing his dim eyes, 

With a convulsive start he flings it down, 

Goes and returns, and loads it where it lies 

With hurried kisses ! Then his glance espies 

A letter by that hand now icy-cold 

Fill'd full of love, and homebred sympathies ; 

Naming familiarly both young and old, 

And blessing that sweet Home he ne'er was to behold. 



230 THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 

And now the Father lays his wither'd hand 

Upon a book whose leaves are idly spread : 

Gone — gone is he who well could understand 

The kingly language of the mighty dead ! 

—There lies the flute that oft at twilight shed 

Airs that beguil'd the old man of his tears ; 

But cold the master's touch — his skill is fled, 

And all his innocent life at once appears 

Like some sweet lovely tune that charm'd in other years, 

But now the door is open'd soft and slow. 

« The hour is come, and all the mourners wait 

" With heads uncover'd in the courts below !" 

Stunn'd are the parents with these words of fate, 

And bow their heads low down beneath the weight 

Of one soul-sickening moment of despair ! 

Grief cometh deadly when it cometh late, 

And with a Fury's hand delights to tear 

From Eld's deep-furrow'd front the thin and hoary hair. 

His eyes are open, and with tearless gleam 

Fix'd on the coffin ! but they see it not, 

Like haunted Guilt blind-walking in a dream, 

With soul intent on its own secret blot. 

The coffin moves ! — yet rooted to the spot, 

He sees it borne away, with vacant eyes, 

Unconscious what it means ! hath even forgot 

The name of Her who in a death-fit lies, — 

His heart is turn'd to stone, nor heeds who lives or dies ! 



THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 231 

Lo ! now the Pall comes forth into the light 
And one chill shudder thrills the weeping crowd ! 
There is it 'mid the sunshine black as night ! 
And soon to disappear — a passing cloud ! 
Grief can no longer bear — but bursts aloud ! 
Youth, manhood, age, one common nature sways 
And hoary heads across the pall are bowed 
Near burnish'd locks where youthful beauty plays — 
For all alike did love the Form that there decays .' 

List ! list ! a doleful dirge — a wild death-song ! 

The coffin now is placed upon its bier, 

And through the echoing cloisters borne along ! 

— How touching those young voices thus to hear 

Singing of sorrow, and of mortal fear 

To their glad innocence as yet unknown ! 

Singing they weep — but transient every tear, 

Nor may their spirits understand the groan 

That age or manhood pours above the funeral stone. 

Waileth more dolefully that passing psalm, 

At every step they take towards the cell 

That calls the coffin to eternal calm ! 

At each swing of the melancholy bell 

More loud the sighing and the sobbing swell, 

More ghostly paleness whitens every face ! 

Slow the procession moves — slow tolls that knell — 

But yet the funeral at that solemn pace 

Alas ! too soon will reach its final resting-place. 



232 THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 

How Vernon lov'd to walk this cloister'd shade 

In silent musings, far into the night ! 

When o'er that Tower the rising Moon display'd 

Not purer than his soul her cloudless light. 

Still was his lamp-lit window burning bright, 

A little earthly star that shone most sweet 

To those in heaven — but now extinguish'd quite— 

— Fast-chain'd are now those nightly- wand'ring feet 

In bonds that none may burst — folds of the winding-sheet, 

Wide is the chapel-gate, and entereth slow 

With all its floating pomp that sable pall ! 

Silent as in a dream the funeral show 

(For grief hath breath'd one spirit into all) 

Is ranged at once along the gloomy wall ! 

Ah me ! what mournful lights athwart the gloom, 

From yonder richly-pictur'd window fall ! 

And with a transitory smile illume 

The dim-discover'd depth of that damp breathless tomb. 

All hearts turn shuddering from that gulf profound, 

And momentary solace vainly seek 

In gazing on the solemn objects round ! 

Those pictur'd saints with eyes uplifted meek 

To the still heavens, how silently they speak 

Of faith untroubled, sanctity divine — 

While on the paleness of each placid cheek 

We seem to see a holy lustre shine 

O'er mortal beauty breath'd from an immortal shrine ! 



THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 233 

What though beneath our feet the earthly mould 
Of virtue, beauty, youth, and genius lie 
In grim decay ! Yet round us we behold 
The cheering emblems of eternity. 
What voice divine is theirs ! If soul may die, 
And nought its perishable glory save, 
Unto yon marble face that to the sky 
Looks up with humble hope, what feeling gave 
Those smiles that speak of heaven, though kindling o'er 
a grave ! 

O holy image of the Son of God ! 

Bearing his cross up toilsome Calvary I 

Was that stern path for sinful mortals trod ? 

— Methinks from that calm cheek, and pitying eye 

Uplifted to that grim and wrathful sky, 

(Dim for our sakes with a celestial tear) 

Falls a sweet smile where Vernon's relics lie 

In mortal stillness on the unmoving bier ! 

Seeming the bright spring-morn of heaven's eternal year. 

—Down, down within oblivion's darksome brink 
With lingering motion, as if every hand 
Were loth to let the mournful burden sink, 
The coffin disappears ! The weeping band, 
All round that gulf one little moment stand 
In mute and blank dismay— and scarcely know 
What dire event has happen'd ! the loose sand 
From the vault-stone with dull drop sounds below,— 
The grave's low hollow voice hath told the tale of woe i 



234 THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 

Look for the last time down that cold damp gloom ; 

Of those bright letters take a farewel sight ! 

— Down falls the vault-stone on the yawning tomb, 

And all below is sunk in sudden night ! 

Now is the chapel-aisle with sunshine bright, 

The upper world is glad, and fresh and fair, 

But that black stone repels the dancing light, — 

The beams of heaven must never enter there, 

Where by the mould'ring corpse in darkness sits Despair! 

Where now those tears, smiles, motions, looks and tones, 
That made our Vernon in his pride of place 
So glorious and so fair ! these sullen stones, 
Like a frozen sea, lie o'er that beauteous face ! 
Soon will there be no solitary trace v 

Of him, his joys, his sadness, or his mirth ! 
Even now grows dim the memory of that grace 
That halo-like shone round the soul of worth ! 
AH fading like a dream ! all vanishing from earth. 

Where now the fancies wild — the thoughts benign 
That rais'd his soul and purified his heart ! 
Where now have fled those impulses divine 
That taught that gifted youth the Poet's art, 
Stealing at midnight with a thrilling start 
Into his spirit, wakeful with the pain 
Of that mysterious joy ! In darkness part 
All the bright hopes, that in a glorious train 
Lay round his soul, like clouds that hail the morning's 
reign ! 



THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 235 

Ah me ! can sorrow such fair image bring 

Before a mourner's eyes ! Methinks I see, 

Laden with all the glories of the spring, 

Balm, brightness, music, a resplendent tree, 

Waving its blossom'd branches gloriously 

Over a sunny garden of delight ! 

A cold north-wind comes wrathful from the sea, 

And there at dawn of day a rueful sight ! 

As winter brown and sere, the glory once so bright. 

I look into the mist of future years, 

And gather comfort from the eternal law 

That yields up manhood to a host of fears, 

To blinded passion, and bewildering awe ! 

Th' exulting soul of Vernon never saw 

Hope's ghastly visage by Truth laugh'd to scorn 5 

Imagination had not paus'd to draw 

The gorgeous curtains of Life's sunny morn, 

Nor show'd the scenes behind so dismal and forlorn. 

To thee, my Friend ! as to a shining star 

Through the blue depths a cloudless course was given ; 

There smil'd thy soul, from earthly vapours far, 

Serenely sparkling in its native heaven ! 

No clouds at last were o'er its beauty driven— 

But as aloft it burn'd resplendently, 

At once it faded from the face of even, 

As oft before the nightly wanderer's eye 

A star on which he gaz'd drops sudden from the sky ! 



236 THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 

Who comes to break my dreams ? The chapel-door 
Is opening slow, and that old Man appears 
With his long floating locks so silvery-hoar ! 
His frame is crouching, as if twenty years 
Had pass'd in one short day ! There are no tears 
On his wan wrinkled face, or hollow eyes ! 
At last with pain his humbled head he rears, 
And asks, while not one grief-chok'd voice replies, 
" Show me the very stone 'neath which my Henry 
lies !" 

He sees the scatter'd dust— and down he falls 

Upon that pavement with a shuddering groan-*- 

And with a faultering broken voice he calls 

By that dear name upon his buried Son. 

Then dumb he lies ! and ever and anon 

Fixes his eye-balls with a ghastly glow 

On the damp blackness of that hideous stone, 

As if he look'd it through, and saw below 

The dead face looking up as white as frozen snow ! 

O gently make way for that Lady fair ! 
How calm she walks along the solemn aisle ! 
Beneath the sad grace of that braided hair, 
How still her brow ! and what a holy smile ! 
One start she gives — and stops a little while, 
When bow'd by grief her husband's frame appears, 
With reverend locks which the hard stones defile ! 



THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 237 

Then with the only voice that mourner hears, 
Lifts up his hoary head and bathes it in her tears ! 

At last the funeral party melts away, 
And as I look up from the chapel-floor, 
No living object can my eyes survey, 
Save these two childless Parents at the door, 
Flinging back a wild farewell — then seen no more ! 
And now I hear my own slow footsteps sound 
Along the echoing aisle — that tread is o'er — 
And as with blinded eyes I turn me round, 
The Sexton shuts the gate that stuns with thundering 
sound ! 

How fresh and cheerful laughs the open air 
To one who has been standing by a tomb ! 
And yet the beauty that is glistening there 
Flings back th' unwilling soul into the gloom. 
We turn from walls which dancing rays illume 
Unto the darkness where we lately stood, 
And still the image of that narrow room 
Beneath the sunshine chills our very blood, 
With the damp breathless air of mortal solitude. 

O band of rosy children shouting loud, 
With morris-dance in honour of the May ! 
Restrain that laughter ye delighted crowd, 
Let one sad hour disturb your holiday. 



238 THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 

Ye drop your flowers, and wonder who are they 
"With garb so black and cheeks of deadly hue f 
With one consent then rush again to play, 
For what hath Sadness, Sorrow, Death to do, 
Beneath that sunny sky with that light-hearted crew ! 

And now the Parents have left far behind 
The gorgeous City with its groves and bowers, 
The funeral toll pursues them on the wind, 
And looking back, a cloud of thunder lowers 
In mortal darkness o'er the shining towers, 
That glance like fire at every sunny gleam ! 
Within that glorious scene, what hideous hours 
Dragg'd their dire length ! tower, palace, temple swim. 
Before their wilder'd brain — a grand but dreadful 
dream ! 

Say who will greet them at their Castle-gate ? 

A silent line in sable garb array'd, 

The ancient servants of the House will wait ! 

Up to those woe-worn visages afraid 

To lift their gaze ! while on the Tower displayed, 

A rueful scutcheon meets the Father's eye, 

Hung out by death when beauty had decayed, 

And sending far into the sunless sky 

The mortal gloom that shrouds its dark emblazonry* 



THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 239 

Oh ! black as death yon pine-grove on the hill \ 

Yon waterfall hath now a dismal roar ! 

Why is that little lake so sadly still, 

So dim the flowers and trees along the shore ! 

'Tis not in vernal sunshine to restore 

Their faded beauty, for the source of light 

That warned the primrose-bank doth flow no more ! 

Vain Nature's power ! for unto Sorrow's sight 

No dewy flower is fair, no blossomy tree is bright. 

— Five years have traveled by — since side by side 

That aged pair were laid in holy ground ! 

With them the very name of Vernon died, 

And now it seemeth like an alien sound, 

Where once it shed bright smiles and blessings round ! 

Another race dwell in that ancient Hall, 

Nor one memorial of that youth is found 

Save his sweet Picture — now unknown to all — 

That smiles, and long will smile neglected on the wall 

But not forgotten in that lofty clime, 
Where star-like once thy radiant spirit shone, 
Art thou my Vernon ! 'mid those courts sublime 
The mournful music of thy name is known. 
Oxford still glories in her gifted Son, 
And grey-hair'd men who speak of days gone by 
Recount what noble palms by him were won, 
Describe his step, his mien, his voice, his eye, 
Till tears will oft rush in to close his eulogy. 



240 THE SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL. 

In the dim silence of the Chapel-aisle 

His Image stands ! with pale but life-like face ! 

The cold white marble breathes a heavenly smile, 

The still locks cluster with a mournful grace. 

O ne'er may time that beauteous bust deface ! 

There may it smile through ages far away, 

On those, who, walking through that holy place, 

A moment pause that Image to survey, 

And read with soften'd soul the monumental lay. 



THE CONVICT, 
PART I. 



SCENE I. 

A room in a cottage at Lea-side The Prisoner's Wife, 

and a Friend sitting together in the midst of the Fa- 
mily. — The day on which sentence was to be pronounced. 

Wife. 'Tis twelve o'clock, and no news from the City. 
Oh ! had he been acquitted, many hundreds 
Would have been hurried hither in their joy, r 
Headlong into the house of misery, 
To shout the tidings of salvation there. 
But now that he is doom'd unto the death, 
They fear to bring with black and silent faces 
The sentence of despair. O God ! to think 
That all this long interminable night, 
Which I have pass'd in thinking on two words — 
" Guilty" — " not guilty !" like one happy moment, 
O'er many a head hath flown unheeded by — 
O'er happy sleepers dreaming in their bliss 



242 THE CONVICT. Part I. 

Of bright to-morrows — or far happier still 
With deep breath buried in forgetfulness. 

all the dismallest images of death 

Did swim before my eyes ! The cruel face 
Of that most wicked old man, whom in youth 

1 once saw in the City — that wan wretch 
The public Executioner, rose up 

Close by my husband's side, and in his hand 

A most accursed halter, which he shook 

In savage mockery— and then grimly smiled, 

Pointing to a scaffold with his shrivell'd fingers, 

Where, on a sudden, my own husband stood 

Drest all in white, and with a fixed face 

Far whiter still — I felt as if in hell, 

And shrieked out till my weeping children rose 

In terror from their beds. 

Friend. 'Twas but a dream. 

Wife. No, I was broad awake — but still the vision 
Stood steadfastly before me — till I sank 
Upon my knees in prayer — and Jesus Christ 
Had pity on me — and it came no more. 

Friend. Full many a sleepless eye did weep for thee 
Last night, and for thy husband. Think it not 
That pity dwells not in the hearts of kindred. 
Even strangers weep — they think him innocent, 
And prayers from many who never saw his face, 
For him have gone to heaven— they will be heard. 



Scene I. THE CONVICT. 243 

Wife. Oh ! what are prayers, and shriekings of de- 
spair, 
Or frantic outcries of insanity, 
Unto the ear of the great dreadful God ! 
Can we believe that prayers of ours will change 
Th' Almighty's steadfast purpose ! Things like us ! 
Poor miserable worms ! — All night I cried 
" Save, save my husband God ! O save my husband !" 
But back the words return'd unto my heart, 
And the dead silence of the senseless walls 
With horrid mockery in the darkness stood 
Between me and my God. 

Friend. Yet it is written, 

Cl Ask and it shall be given thee." 

Wife. Blessed words ! 

And did they come from his most holy lips 
Who cannot lie ? 

Friend. They are our Saviour's words* 

Wife. Joy, joy unto the wretched ! Hear me then, 

Son of God ! while near my cradled infant 
Sleeping in ignorance of its Father's sorrows, 

1 fall down on my knees before thy face ! 
^ear, hear the broken voice of misery ! 

" Ask and it shall be given thee !" Holy One ! 
I ask, beseech, implore, and supplicate, 
That Thou wilt save my husband, and henceforth 
Will I an alter'd creature walk this earth 



244 THE CONVICT. Parti. 

With Thee, and none but Thee, most Holy Being, 
For ever in my heart, my inmost heart. 

Friend. Is not my friend already comforted ? 

Wife. The heavy burden of despair is lighten'd. 
In this my hour of tribulation 
My Saviour's words return upon my heart, 
Like breath of Spring reviving the dead flowers 
In our sweet little garden. 

Friend. Heaven bless thee, 

A smile is on thy cheek, a languid smile ! 

Wife. I know not why I smiled — a sudden gleam 
Of hope did flash across me. — Hark ! a footstep ! 

Friend. 'Tis the dog stirring on his straw. 

Wife, Poor Luath ! 

Thy kind affectionate heart doth miss thy master. 
Mary ! the poor dumb creature walks about 
As if some sickness wore him, always wandering 
Round, round the house, and all the neighbouring fields, 
Seeking the absent. He will disappear 
For hours together, and come home at night 
Wearied and joyless— for he has been running 
No doubt o'er all the hills, and round the lochs, 
Trying to find his master's well*known footsteps. 
Then will he look with dim Complaining eyes 
Full in my face, and with a wailing whine 
Goes to his straw, and there at once lies down 
Without a gambol or a loving frisk 
Among the little children. Many a Christian 



Scene I. THE CONVICT. U5 

Might take a lesson from that poor dumb creature. 
— When Frank comes home—how Luath will partake 
The general happiness ! When Frank comes home ! 
What am I raving of ? When Frank comes home ! 
That blank and weeping face too plainly says 
" That hour will never be !" Look not so black, 
Unless you wish to kill me with despair. 

Friend. I wished not to appear so sorrowful. 
Within the silent grave my husband sleeps, 
And I am reconciled unto the doom 
Of widowhood — this Babe doth reconcile me. 
But thine is lying in the fearful darkness 
Of an uncertain fate-^and I now feel 
A beating at my heart — a cold sick flutter 
That sends this black expression to my face, 
Although it nothing mean. 

Wife. O that some bird, 

Some beautiful bird with soft and purple feathers, 
Would sail into this room, in silence floating 
All round these blessed walls, with the boon of life 
Beneath its outspread wings — a holy letter 
In mercy written by an angel's hand, 
In bright words speaking of deliverance ! 
— A raven ! hear that dismal raven croak 
Of death and judgment ! See the Demon sitting 
On the green before the window — croak, croak, croak 1 
'Tis the Evil- One in likeness of that bird 
Enjoying there my mortal misery ! 



246 THE CONVICT. Part I. 

Boij. 'Tis not a raven mother — the tame crow 
Of cousin William, that comes hopping here 
With its dipt wings — aye, almost every day — . 
My father himself oft fed that bird, and put it 
Upon my head, where it would sit and caw, 
And flutter with its wings. — and all the while. 
My father laugh'd — it was so comical 
He said, to see that black and sooty crow 
Sitting on my white hair. 

Wife. Your father laugh'd ! 

[Laughing herself hysterically^ 

Boy. Oh ! that he were come back from prison — 
Mother ! 
Last night I fought a boy who said in sport 
That my father would be hanged. 

Wife. The little wretch [ 

What did he say ? 

Boy. That my father would be hanged ! 

Wife. O God ! the senseless child did speak the truth ! 
He hath heard his parents talking of the trial, 
And in his careless levity repeated 
The shocking words — aye — laughing all the while, 
Then running to his play — perhaps intending 
To ask the master for a holiday 
To see the execution. Cursed brat ! 
What place is sacred held from cruelty, 
W 7 hen it doth leer within an infant's eyes 
And harden his glad heart ! 



Scene I. THE CONVICT. 247 

Boy. I beat him mother. 

He is a lying boy — he ne'er speaks truth — 
And when, my father is come home again, 
I will ask him if he recollects that saying ! 
No, I will look at him, and pass him by 
With a proud smiling face — I will forgive him 
And shake hands with him in my happiness. 

Wife, The sun is shining — children go to play 
For an hour out-of-doors. 

Boy. Come — sisters, come ! 

We will go out-of-doors — but not to play. 
Come to the little green-plat in the wood, 
And say our prayers together for our father. 
Then if we play — 'twill be some gentle game, 
And all the while we will think upon our father 
Coming out of that dark cell — Come sisters — come ! 

Friend. Children so good as these must not be or- 
phans ! 
Yet I am glad to see thy soul prepar'd 
Even for the worst. 

Wife. My soul prepared for the worst ! 

No ! that can never be — (goes to the window.) — A cloud 

of thunder 
Is hanging o'er the city ! black as night ! 
1 hear it rumbling — what a hollow growl ! 
O dreadful building where the Judge is sitting 
In judgment on my husband ! All the darkness 
Of the disturbed heavens is on its walls. 



248 THE CONVICT. Part I. 

—And now the fatal sentence is pronouncing. 

The Court at once is hush'd — and every eye 

Bent on my husband ! " Hanged till you are dead, 

f* Hanged by the neck !" — As thou dost hope for mercy, 

O savage Judge ! recal these wicked words ! 

For thy own wife who waits for thee at home 

Is not more innocent than my poor husband ! 

[She flings herself dowi on thejioor in an agony of 
grief] 

Friend. Mercy is with the King — and he is merciful ! 

Wife. What I what ! do you believe an innocent man 
Was e'er condemned to die ! — To die for murder ! 
—Did mercy ever reach one so condemn'd ? 

Friend. Yes ! I have read of one wretch pardoned 
Even on the scaffold — where the light of truth 
Struck, like the sunshine suddenly burst forth, 
And tinged with fearful joy the ghastly face 
Of him who had no thought but that of death. 
And back unto his widow-wife went he, 
Like a ghost from the grave — and there he sat 
Before the eyes of her who knew him not, 
But took him for a vision, and fell down 
In a death-fit of wilder'd happiness. 

Wife. Mercy dwells with the King — and he is merciful. 
O blest for ever be the hoary head 
Of our kind-hearted King ! — I will away 
And fling myself down before his royal feet ! 
Who knows but that the monarch in his palace 



Scene I. THE CONVICT. 249 

Will see within his soul this wretched cottage, 
And, like a saving angel, with one word 
Breathe over it the air of paradise. 
— Mercy is with the King — and he is merciful. 

Friend. Fortune is blind — but justice eagle-eyed, 
He will not be condemned. 

Wife. Give me some water 1 

My soul is faint with thirst ! — Do they not say 
That men upon the scaffold call for water ? 
— " Give me a glass of water !" 'tis his voice — 
My husband's voice !— No ! he is not condemned ! 
A thousand voices from these silent walls 
Cry out " he shall not die!"— 

Enter a young Clergyman. 

Clergyman. Methinks that God hath shed a calm to- 
day 
Over the house of mourning. Is it so ? 

Wife. Thy presence brings a calm. Oh ! one like 
thee 
Should bear good tidings. 

Clergyman. Last night in his cell 

I saw your husband after his long trial, 
And sure I am that never did he sit 
Even in this room among his family 
With more composed face, or stiller soul, 
Than he sat there upon his bed of straw, 
With fetters on his limbs. 



250 THE CONVICT. Part I. 

Wife. Fetters on his limbs ! 

Clergyman, He felt them not — or if he faintly felt 
them, 
It was not in his soul — for it was free 
As a lark in heaven. 

Wife, He was not shedding tears ! 

Clergyman, No — with a calm and quiet face he lookM 
at me, 
And in his eyes there was a steadfast light 
By grief unclouded, and undimm'd by tears. 
So was it while the blameless man was speaking 
Of himself and of his trial : then he spake 
Of those he loved, and as he breath'd the name 
Of this sweet farm " Lea-side !" then truly tears 
Did force their way, but soon he wip'd them off, 
And rais'd to heaven a clear unfaltering prayer 
For his wife and children — the most touching prayer, 
I think, that ever flowed from human lips ! 

Wife, Is there no hope, then, after all, of life ! 

Clergyman. Yes ! there is hope — though I am forc'd 
to say 
That he doth stand upon the darksome brink 
Of danger and of death. 

Wife. I hear thy words, 

And I can bear them ! For my suffering spirit 
Hath undergone its pains, and I am left, 
Even like a woman after travail, weak — 



Scene I. THE CONVICT. 251 

But in a slumbrous quiet that succeeds 

The hour of agony. [She sinks into sleep.'] 

Clergyman. My friend ! behold 
How quietly that worn-out wretch doth sleep. 

Friend. Calm as an infant ! 

Clergyman. Even too deep for dreams ! 

How meekly beautiful her face doth smile 
As from a soul that never had known grief. 
Methinks that God, in that profound repose, 
Will breathe submission through her innocent soul, 
And she who lay down with a mortal's weakness 
May wake in power and glory like an angel 
Whom trouble cannot touch. 

Enter the Children weeping. 

Friend. What ails ye my sweet children — but speak 
softly — 
Your mother is asleep. 

Girl. O tell it, brother I 

For my heart beats so that I cannot speak ! 

Boy. When we were coming homewards down the 
lane 
That leads from the Fox-wood, that old dumb Woman 
Who tells folk's fortunes, from behind the hedge 
Leapt out upon the road, before our faces, 
And with that dreadful barking voice of hers, 
And grinning mouth, and red and fiery eyes, 
All the while shaking at us her black hair, 



252 THE CONVICT. Part I. 

She took a rope of rushes and did tie it 

Like a halter round her neck, and pull'd it tight 

Till she grew black in the face ! Then shook her hand 

Against our cottage, while my father's name 

Seem'd half-pronounc'd in that most hideous gabble. 

Then with one spring she leapt behind the hedge, 

Where, as we ran away, we heard her laughing ! 

And oh ! a long, loud, cruel laugh it was ! 

As if she laugh'd to know that our poor father 

Was now condemned to die ! 

Friend. O wicked wretch 1 the silence of her soul 
Is fiird with cruel thoughts — even like a mad-house 
With the din of creatures raving. None can guess 
The wrath of this dumb savage ! 

[The door opens, and the dumb woman enters making 
a hideous noise, and with signs intimating that 
some one is to be hanged. The prisoner's wife, 
wakened by the noise, stains from her sleep."] 
Wife. Thou silent, speechless messenger of death ! 
Louder thy dumbness than a roaring cannon ! 
Away — away — thou fury from my sight. 
— God save me from that woman ! or deliver 
Her soul from the devils that torment her thus. 

[The children hide themselves, and the dumb woman 
rushes out with peals of wild laughter."] 
Her face was black with death — a hellish joy 
Shone through her idiot eyes — as if a fiend 
Had taken that rueful body for a dwelling, 



Scene I. THE CONVICT. 253 

And from these glazed sockets lov'd to look 
With a horrid leer upon us mortal creatures, 
A leer of unrepentant wickedness, 
Hating us because we are the work of God ! 

Boy. I wish that she were dead and buried. 

Wife. O now that she is gone, hope leaps again 
Within my heart — her hideous mummery 
Must not be suffer'd to confound me so. 
And yet, they say, that she did prophecy, 
With the wild motions of her witch-like hands, 
That fatal sinking of the ferry-boat 
In which whole families perished. Hush ! I hear 
The tread of feet — it is the Messenger 
Come from the City. 

[Enter Messenger with a letter in his hand.~] 

Wife. Speak, speak instantly — 

Speak ! Why do you come here unless you speak ? 
— His face doth seem composed. 

Messenger, Poor Francis Russel ! 

Now all is over with him — he is condemned ! 

Wife. What did he say ? — Why art thou gabbling 
thus, 
As none can understand ? — Give me that letter. 

[Tears it open and reads it aloud.'] 
" They have found me guilty, Mary ! trust in God." 
[She flings herself down on the floor, and her Child- 
ren lie down crying beside her.] 



254 THE CONVICT. Part I. 

Messenger, I cannot bear the sight — good folks, fare- 
well. 

Wife. « My Mary trust in God." I cannot trust 
In God ! — Oh ! wilt thou in thy wrath allow 
My innocent husband thus to be destroyed ? 
I cannot trust in God ! O cursed for ever 
Be all the swarm of idiot witnesses, 
Jury and Judge, who thus have murder'd him, 
And may his blood for generations lie 
Heavy on their children's souls ! 

Girl. O brother ! see 

'Tis our poor Father's writing. Yet his hand 
Seems never to have shaken. — Innocence, 
He used to say, did make small children fearless, 
And it will make him happy in his prison, 
Till we rush in, and wait till he is pardon'd, 
Which will be 

Wife. Never will he leave his dungeon 

But for the scaffold. Would that I were dead, 
And all my children corpses at my side, 

Never again to wake * for Mercy is not 

In heaven or earth. There is no Providence ! 
[Covers herface^ and tears her hair.~\ 

Clergyman, These are affecting words from one so 
good 
And truly pious. But our human nature, 
When touch'd at the heart by Misery's icy hand, 
Oft shrieks out with a wild impiety, 



Scene I. THE CONVICT. Q55 

Against its better will. Yet that shrill cry 
Is heard in heaven with pity, and on earth 
Is often followed by the calm still voice 
Of resignation melting into prayer. 

Wife, ( starting up). Where art thou ? What impe- 
netrable cloud 
Hides thee from justice, thou grim murderer ! 
On whom the dead man's blood, the quick man's tears, 
Now call with twofold vengeance ? Drive him forth, 
O Fear ! into the light, and I shall know him, 
Soon as my eye meets his. His very name 
Will burst instinctively from my big heart, 
And he will answer to it. Where art thou 
With thy red hands, that never may be cleans'd ? 

Friend. 'Tis five weeks to the day of execution, 
And he may be discovered — 

Wife. Execution ! 

And will they make my husband mount a ladder 
Up to a scaffold ! May he rather die 
Of anguish in his cell ! — Where are my children ? 
— O they are weeping even upon my breast ! 
— Would they had ne'er been born ! — Eternal shame 
W T ill lie upon them ! lovely as they are, 
And good, and pure, and innocent as angels, 
They will be scorn'd and hated ! — Save my husband, 
Great God of Mercy ! Jesus ! save my husband. 
— O many thousand miles of clouds and air 
Lie between me and God ! and my faint voice 



256 THE CONVICT. Parti. 

Returns unto the earth, while the still heavens, 
Like the deep sea above a drowning head, 
Mind not the stifled groans of agony ! 

Clergyman. I will go to his cell and pray with him. 
He had foreseen his doom,< — and be assured 
That he is sitting in the eye of God, 
With meek composure, not in agony. 

The Children. O take us with you. 

Clergyman. For a while farewell, 

The wife's heart now is like a heavy cloud ! 
But tears will lighten it— God be with you all ! 

SCENE II. 

The condemned Cell.— The Prisoner in Chains.— The 

Prison clock strikes. 

Prisoner. That was a dreadful toll ! it brings me 
nearer 
Unto the day of horror. Here am I 
Deli ver'd over to the fear of death 
In cold and rueful solitude — shut out 
By that black vault of stone from memory 
Of human beings — and, as it would seem, 
From the pity of my God ! Who thinks on me ? 
The crowd that came to hear my sentence past 
Are scatter'd o'er the City, and my fate 
Is by them all forgotten, or pronounced 
With faces of indifference or of pleasure, 



Scene II. THE CONVICT. 257 

Among the chance discoursing of the day. 

And yet my silent solitary cell 

Is in the heart of life ! — O joyful sound 

Of life and freedom in a rushing tumult 

Sweeping o'er the streets in the bright open day ! 

O that I were a beggar cloth'd in rags ! 

Prey'd on by cold and hunger — and with wounds 

Incurable, worn down unto a shadow, 

So that I knew not when I was to die ! 

—I hear the blind man singing in the street 

With a clear gladsome voice, a jocund song ! 

What is the loss of eyes ! — Thou bawling wretch 

Disturb him not ! With what a hideous twang 

He howls out to the passing traveller, 

" A full account of Francis Russel's trial, 

" The murderer's confession." Save my soul— 

O save me from that hideous skeleton ! • • • • 

[Dashes himself on the floor, .] 

The Jailor enters with bread and water. 

Jailor. Look up my friend — I bring you some refresh- 
ment. 
Prisoner. {Staring wildly.) Art thou the executioner ? 
Jailor. No. The Jailor. 

Prisoner. Is the fatal hour arrived ? 
Jailor. I'm not the hangman. 

Prisoner. One single drop of wine ! These two last 



258 THE CONVICT. Part I. 

Have put my blood into a burning fever, 
Yet the thought of water sickens at my heart. 
One single drop of wine. 

Jailor, I must not give it. 

Prisoner. O that a want like this should seem a hard- 
ship 
To one condemned to die ! My wretched body 
With fiery fever wastes my quaking soul, 
And rather would I have one drop of wine 
Than voice of friends or prayers of holy men, 
So faint and thirsty is my very being. 

Jailor. What must be must. 

Prisoner. G cold and heavy chains \ 

How shockingly they glitter as they clank ! 

Jailor. You soon will get accustom'd to their weight. 
Observe that ring there runs along the staunchel, 
On the stone-floor — so you may drag your legs 
From wall to wall with little difficulty, 
And in a week or two you'll never heed 
The clanking of the iron. The last criminal 
Was but a lath of a man compared with you, 
And yet whene'er I came into his cell 
I found him always merrily at work, 
Back back and forward whisking constantly 
Like a bird in his cage. 

Prisoner. Was he set free at last ? 

Jailor. Aye. Jack Ketch set him free. 

Prisoner. What was his crime ? 



Scene II. THE CONVICT. 



259 



Jailor. A murderer like yourself. He kill'd his sweet- 
heart, 
And threw her, though some six months gone with child, 
Into a coal-pit. 

Prisoner, (sternly.) Leave me to myself. 

Jailor. Why ! Man, I wish to be on good terms with 
you. 
I am your friend. What ! many a noble fellow 
Hath in his day done murder : in the name 
There may be something awkward — but the act 
Still varies with the change of circumstance — 
I would as lief shake hands with thee my friend 
As with the Judge himself. 

Prisoner, (eagerly.) Dost think me innocent ? 

Jailor, (ironically.) O yes ! as innocent as any lamb. 
But hark ye ! if that I allow your friends 
To visit you at times, you in return 
Will let me shew you to the country-people 
On a chance market-day. 

Prisoner. O God of mercy ! 

Jailor. There will they stand beyond reach of your 
arm, 
With open mouth and eyes like idiots. 
Then look unto each other — shake their heads 
And crying out, " God bless us !" leave the cell, 
No doubt much wiser than they came — quite proud 
To think how they will make their neighbours shudder 
At the picture of thy murderous countenance, 



260 THE CONVICT. Part I. 

And eyes so like a demon's — we will share 
The money, friend 

Prisoner, The money ! — What of money I 

Jailor. Why you are surely deaf 

Prisoner. Give me the water. 

[Drinks eagerly.] 
Take — take the bread that I may die of hunger. 

[The Jailor goes out of the cell] 
I feel as if buried many a fathom deep 
In a cave below the sea, or in some pit 
Cover'd o'er with thorns amid a darksome wood, 
Where one might lie from Sabbath unto Sabbath 
Shrieking madly out for help, but all in vain, 
Unto the solitary trees, or clouds 
That past unheeding o'er the far-off heavens ! 
Five weeks must drag their days and nights along 
Through the damp silence of this lonesome cell, 
And all that time must I be sitting here 
In doleful dreams — or lying on this straw 
With nought but shivering terror in my soul — 
Or hurrying up and down with clanking chains 
In wrath and sickness and insanity, 
A furious madman preying on myself 
And dash'd against the walls. What spirit moves 
These bolts ? Q welcome whosoe'er thou art ! 
A very demon's presence in this dungeon 
Would be a comfort. 

[The door opens, and the young Clergyman enten^] 



Scene II. THE CONVICT. 2 fa 

Son of righteousness \ 
Let me fall down in worship at thy feet. 

Clergyman. O man of trouble ! put your trust in God. 
Morning and evening will 1 seek your cell 
And read the Bible with you. Rise — O rise ! 

Prisoner. Despise me not that on this cruel pavement 
I dash myself down in fear and agony, 
And grovel at your feet ! A pitiful wretch 
Indeed am I ; and to preserve my life 
Would hang my head in everlasting shame, 
Or a lonesome hunger'd in a desert dwell 
Doom'd never more to sleep. 

Clergyman. Unhappy man ! 

Say what thou wilt, for I will listen to thee. 

Prisoner (looking up.) Can you not save me ?— On a 
quiet bed, 
Surrounded by my weeping family, 
I might have died like other mortal creatures 
In awful resignation ; but to stand 
Upon a scaffold in my native parish, 
With a base halter round my abject neck, 
Stared at, and hiss'd at, sh udder 'd at, and scorn'd, 
Put out of life, like a dog, with every insult 
Cruelly forced on my immortal soul, 
And then • • • • O Christ, I hear a skeleton 
Rattling in chains ! —To a madhouse carry me, 
Bind me to the floor, that when the day arrives 
The hangman's hand may strive in vain to burst 
The bolts that chain the Lunatic to life. 



262 THE CONVICT. Part I. 

I will feign madness. No — Eternal God 1 

I need not feign, for like a tide it cometh, 

Wave after wave, upon my choking spirit 

I am bound to a stake within the mark o* the sea, 

And the cold drowning mounts up from my feet. 

Clergyman. Send peace, O Lord ! unto the sufferer's 
heart. 

Prisoner. Suddenly, suddenly in my happiness 
The curse did smite me. O my gentle Alice, 
Is the sweet baby now upon thy breast ? 
The Mother and the Infant both will die. 
The dreadful day of execution 
Will murder us all, and Lea- side then will be 
Silent as the grave. O fearful Providence, 
Darken my brain, that I may think no more 
On thy wild ways that only lead to death, 
To misery, to madness, and to hell ! 
Is all I say not true ? Didst hear him speak ? 
That savage Judge, who with a hollow voice, 
As if he had a pleasure in my anguish, 
Continued speaking hours most bitterly 
Against a quaking prisoner bow'd with shame ? 
He had forgotten that I was a Man ! 
And ever as he turn'd his harden'd eye 
Towards the bar, it froze my very heart $ 
So proud, so cruel, and so full of scorn. 
I think he might have wept, for many wept 
When he pass'd sentence on me— but his voice 



Scene II. THE CONVICT. 263 

Was calm and steady, and his eye was clear, 

Looking untroubled on the face of trouble. 

I did not faint —No though a sickening pang 

Tugg'd at my heart, and made the cold sweat creep 

Like ice- drops o'er my body — yet even then 

Did conscious innocence uphold my soul, 

And turn'd the horrid words to senseless sounds 

That ought not to dismay — while he that sat 

In pompous robes upon the judgment- seat, 

Seem'd in his blind unfeeling ignorance 

A verier wretch than I. 

Clergyman. We all are blind, 

And duty's brow is stern, and harsh his voice. 
That Judge is famed for his humanity, 
And though no tears were in his solemn eyes, 
They flow'd within his heart. 

Prisoner. I do forgive him. 

What shrieks were these ? 

Clergyman. Of a poor criminal 

In the next cell. 

Priso?ier. Condemn'd like me to die i 

Clergyman. No ! doom'd to drag out in a foreign 
land, 
Unpitied years of misery and shame. 

Prisoner. O happy lot ! who would not leap with joy 
Into the ship that bore him to the land 
Of shame and toil, and crime and wickedness, 
So that with all his load of misery 



264 THE CONVICT. Part I. 

He might escape from death ! May not I escape ? 

Bolts have been riven, and walls been undermin'd, 

And the free winds have borne the prisoner 

To the dark depths of safety — never more 

To walk the streets of cities, but to dwell 

As in the shadow of the grave, unknown 

But to his own soul silent as the night ! 

I feel a wild hope springing from despair ! 

That shadow was not mine that stood all-white 

Shivering on a scaffold : — Sampson's strength is here, 
And the hard stone to my unwearied hand 
Will crumble into dust. 

Clergyman. O let us pray ! 

Prisoner. Yes, I will pray ! pray for deliverance, 
And years to come ! O be they what they may, 
For life is sweet, embitter'd though it be 
With the lowest dregs in the cup of misery ! 
Clergyman. Shall we kneel down ? 
Prisoner. Aye ! they will dance and dance, 

And smile and laugh, and talk of pleasant things, 
And listen to sweet music all the night, 
That I am lying fetter'd to the straw 
In dire convulsions. They will speak of me 
Amid their mirth and music, but will see not 
My image in their souls, or it would strike them 
With palsy 'mid their savage merriment, 
Clanking these dreadful fetters in their ears. 
Clergyman. I will return at night 



Scene II. THE CONVICT. 265 

Prisoner. O leave me not. 

For I am scarcely in my sober mind. 
A thousand fiends are waiting to destroy me 
Soon as you leave the cell, for innocence 
Is found not proof against the pains of hell. 

Clergyman, I will bring your wife to visit you. 

Prisoner , f kneeling. J Q Q & 

Of tender mercies, let thy countenance 
Shine on that wretched one. Let this cell lie 
Forsaken of thy presence — if thy will — 
But, for His sake who died upon the cross, 
Let heavenly sunshine fall into her soul ! 
Temper the wind to the shorn lamb that lies 
Upon her breast in helpless infancy ! 
O ! if our cottage could but rest in peace, 
Here could I pass the remnant of my life 
In lonely resignation to my fate. 
Forsake not her and my sweet family. 

Clergyman* Man forsakes man —that melancholy word 
Applieth not to gracious Providence. 

Prisoner. I am not then forsaken. 

Clergyman. Fear it not ! 

Wrapt in the dark cloud of adversity, 
Thou art indeed ; but clouds are of the earth. 
Lift up the eye of Faith, and thou wilt see 
The clear blue sky of the untroubled heavens. 

Prisoner. My soul at once is calm'd— now let us pray. 



THE CONVICT. 
PART II. 



SCENE I. 
The morning of the day of execution — The young Cler- 
gyman and another Friend sitting beside the Pri- 
soner, who is asleep. 

Clergyman. He stirs as he would wake* 

Friend. List ! list ! he speaks ! 

Clergyman. A smile is on his face — a kindling smile. 

Friend. Oh ! when he wakes ! 

Clergyman. Hearken — he speaks again. 

Prisoner fin his sleep. J O my sweet Alice ! 'Twas a 
dreadful dream ! 
Am I in truth awake ? Come to my heart ! 
There — there — I feel thy breath — pure — pure — most 
pure. 

Friend. What a deep sigh of overwhelming bliss ! 
Hell gapes for him when he awakes from heaven. 



Scene I. THE CONVICT. 267 

Clergyman, Will not the same benignant Providence 
That blesseth now his sleep, uphold him falling 
Into the shadow of death ! 

Prisoner. No tears my Alice ! 

Weep — weep no more ! Where is our infant Alice f. 
Esther where art thou ? Mary ? My sweet twins ! 
— I dreamt that I had bid thee farewell Alice ! 
Why is that loving voice so slow to speak ? 
Hold me to thy bosom lest the curse return ! 
Why beats thy heart so • • • • 

Friend, Lo ! his glazed eyes 

Are open — but methinks he sees us not 

Prisoner, {starting up,) My family are swept off from 
the earth. 
— I know not, in the darkness of my brain, 
My dreams from waking thoughts nor these from dreams, 
— Yes ! yes ! at once 'tis plain. O heaven of heavens ! 
Thou canst not be in all thy sanctity 
A place so full of perfect blessedness, 
As the bed where I was lying in my dream. 

Clergyman. We have been praying for thee all the 
night. 

Prisoner. What ! my dear friends ! good morning to 
you both. 
Have I been sleeping long ? 

Clergyman. Since four o'clock, 

And now 'tis almost eight. 

Prisoner^ Blest was that sleep 



2bS THE CONVICT. Part II. 

Beyond all human bliss ! I was at home, 
And Alice in my bosom • • • • Come my Friend, 
You must not thus be overcome, this hour 
Too awful is for tears. Look not on me 
As on a son of anguish and despair, 
But a Man, sorely stricken though he be, 
Supported by the very power of Sorrow, 
And Faith that comes a solemn comforter 
Even hand in hand with death. 

Clergyman. Most noble spirit ! 

Fitter art thou with that untroubled voice 
To comfort us than to be comforted. 

Prisoner. This cell hath taught me many a hidden 
thing. 
I have become acquainted with my soul 
Through midnight silence, and through lonely days 
Silent as midnight. I have found therein 
A well of waters undisturbed and deep, 
Of sustenance, refreshment, and repose. 

Clergyman, On earth nought may prevail o'er inno- 
cence. 

Priso?ier. One night, methought, a voice said in my 
cell, 
" Despondency, and Anguish, and Despair 
" Are falling on thee ! curse thy God and die f — • 
ie Peace, Resignation, and Immortal Hope," 
A dewy voice replied. It was a dream. 
But the good angel's voice was in my soul, 



Scene I. THE CONVICT. 26Q 

Most sweet when I awoke, and from that hour, 
A heavenly calm hath never left my cell. 

Friend. O must we part for ever from our Friend ! 
Is there no hope ? The hour of agony 
Is hastening on, and there is none to save ! 

Clergyman. Forgive his grief. 'Tis easier to resign 
Ourselves unto our fate, than to endure 
The sight of one we love about to die. 

Prisoner. A little brook doth issue from the hill 
Above Lea-side, and, ere it reaches us, 
Its course is loud and rocky, crying still 
As with a troubled voice. But o'er the green 
That smiles beside our door it glideth on, 
Just like a dream so soft and silently, 
For ever cheerful and for ever calm. 
Last night when you came here — I had been thinking 
Of that sweet brook, and it appear'd to me 
An emblem of my own much alter'd soul, 
Lately so troubled, but now flowing on 
In perfect calmness to eternity. 

Friend. Thinking of Lea-side even unto the last 

Prisoner. Yes ! I will think of it unto the last, 
Of heaven and it by turns. There is no reason 
Why it should be forgotten while I live. 
I see it, like a picture on that wall, 
In the silence of the morning, with its smoke, 
Its new waked smoke slow wreathing up to heaven ! 



270 THE CONVICT. Part II. 

And from that heaven, where, through my Saviour's 

death, 
I humbly hope to be, I will look down 
On that one spot — Oh ! sure the loveliest far 
On the wide earth ! too sweet ! too beautiful ! 
Too blest to leave without a gush of tears. 
— They will drive me past my own door to the scaffold ? 

Friend. Such is the savage sentence. 

Prisoner. It is well. 

Friend. We never will forsake you to the last — 
But proudly sit beside you 

Prisoner. Sweet Lea-side 1 

And I will see my little farm again ! 
New-thatched with my own hand this very Spring — 
All full of blossoms is my garden now, 
And the sweet hum of bees ! — Hush'd be the wheels 
As o'er a depth of snow, when they pass by ! 
That Alice may not hear the fearful sound, 
And rush out with my children in her arms. 

Clergyman. Fear not — she hath gone into her father's 
house. 

Prisoner. I thought our parting had been past. But 
no ! 
Souls cannot part though parting words be breathed, 
With deep abandonment of earthly loves. 
Had I not dreamt that heavenly dream last night 
Perhaps it had been so — but in that dream 
My human nature burst again to life, 



Scene I. THE CONVICT. 271 

And I think upon my widow as before 
With love, grief, shame, dismay, and agony. 

Clergyman, I am the father, says our gracious God, 
Of the orphan and the widow. 

Prisoner. 'Twas a pang ! 

A passing pang ! (going to the window) It is a sunny 

day. 
Methinks if I had any tears to shed, 
That I could weep to see the fading world 
So beautiful ! How brightly wilt thou smile 
O Sun, to-morrow when my eyes are dark ! 
O 'tis a blessed earth I leave behind ! 

[A noise at the door. 2 

Friend, It is not yet the time \ 

Jailor enters. In half an hour 

They will come to fetch the prisoner from his cell. 

[Goes out.~\ 

Friend, O scowling savage 1 What a heart of stone. 

Prisoner, I think he is less cruel than he seems. 
Sometimes his face hath worn a look of pity, 
And his voice soften'd ; but his heart is blind 
In ignorance, and harden'd by the sight 
Of unrepentant wickedness, and sorrows 
Which human sympathy would fail to cure. 
He seem'd disturb'd — he feels all he can feel. 

Clergyman. Thou art indeed a Christian. 

Prisoner \ Death is near* 

You know my heart, and will reveal it truly 



272 TIJE CONVICT. Part II. 

To all who know my tale. The time will come 

When innocence will vindicate itself, 

And shame fall off my rising family 

Like snow shaken from the budding trees in spring. 

— They doubt not of their father's innocence ? 

Clergyman. Unshaken is the confidence of love 
In hearts that know not sin — thy memory 
Hallow'd by tribulation will endure 

Prisoner. Enough— enough. Here take this blessed 
book, 
Which from my dying father I received, 
And give it to my wife. Some farewell thoughts 
I have dared to write beneath my children's names, 
Recorded duly there soon as baptized. 
And now I have no more to say to man. 
Leave me alone a little while — and wait 
In the open street, till I appear before you. 

Friend. We fear to leave the cell— you look so pale ! 
As if about to faint. 

Prisoner {holding out his hand with a smile,) My pulse 
is steady. 

Clergyman. We leave thee to thy God ! 

SCENE II. 
Inside of a cottage,-~The prisoner's Wife sitting with her 
Friend, surrounded by her family. 
Wife. Speak to me ! let my weeping children speak, 
Although it be with sobs of agony. 



Scene II. THE CONVICT. 2/3 

Friend. See how composed your sweetest children sit 
All round your knees ! They weep, and sigh, and sob, 
For piteous they and most compassionate. 
But nature steals upon them in their grief, 
And happy thoughts, in spite even of themselves, 
^Come o'er them — the glad light of infancy. 
Mourn not for them — in little William's hand, 
Although his heart be framed of love and pity, 
Already see that play-thing ! none need weep 
For them a gracious God preserves in bliss. 

Wife. 'Tis not on them I think— O God ! O God ! 

Friend. He soon will be in Heaven. 

Wife. A dreadful path 

Must first be trod. O 'tis most horrible ! 

Friend. Since that last scene is present to your soul 
I dare to speak of it. The face of death 
More hideous seems to us who gaze upon it 
Bent towards a friend we love, than to the wretch 
Who sees the black frown fix'd upon himself. 
The fears of fancy are most terrible, 
But when the apprehended misery comes, 
The spirit smiles to feel how bearable 
The heaviest stroke of fate. 

Wife. Thy kind voice seems 

To speak of comfort, though the words are dark. 
Misery's sick soul is slow to understand, 
Yet I will listen, for that gentle voice 
Brings of itself relief. 



274 THE CONVICT. Part II. 

Friend, Calm, unappall'd — 

How many mount the scaffold ! Even Guilt 
Strong in repentance often standeth there 
And quaketh not. And will not innocence 
Victoriously from that most rueful place 
Look o'er the grave — : nor death's vain idle show 
Have power to raise one beating in his heart ? 

Wife, O what a dreadful night he must have past ! 

Friend. Nay — fear it not — the night before they die, 
Condemned men enjoy unbroken sleep, 
By mercy sent to their resigned souls, 
Calming and strengthening for the morrow's trial. 
While we were weeping — his closed eyes were dry* 
And his soul hush'd in deep forgetfulness. 

Wife, I feel as if I ne'er shall sleep again ! 
The look with which he flung his body down 
On the stone-floor, when I was carried from him, 
Will never pass away. O that sweet face 
Was changed indeed by nature's agony, 
Sunk, fallen, hollow, bloodless and convulsed ! 

Friend. O strive to think on other prison-hours 
When on your knees together, lost in prayer, 
You seem'd two happy Beings offering up 
Thanksgiving, rather than poor suppliants 
Imploring resignation to your doom. 

Wife, No. I will think but of that desperate hour 
When darkness fell between us, there to brood 
Until we meet in heaven. Come near to me, 



Scene II. THE CONVICT. 275 

For I must tell thee how my husband look'd 
When wicked men did tear those two asunder 
Whom God, and love, and nature had united. 

Friend. O spare me — spare me — on yourself have 

Pity* 
And these soft-hearted ones — too apt to weep ! 

Wife. Why should I fear to speak ? 

Friend. Your Infant wakes ! 

Here, take it to your breast- — 

Wife. Heed, heed it not. 

— For hours we sat, and dreamt, and spoke, and wept, 
Recall'd our happy life to memory, 
From the hour we first met on yon sunny brae ! 
Our friendship, love, and marriage, — the sweet child 
That came to bless our first delightful spring — 
All our sweet children ! not forgetting her 
Who went so young to heaven. The Jailor came, 
Or some one with a black and cruel countenance, 
And changed at once our sorrow to despair. 
We had not thought of parting — in the past 
So buried were our hearts ! — such images 
Blinded our spirits with the tears of love, 
And though we felt a dire calamity 
Brought us together in that hideous cell, 
W T e thought not what it was ; till all at once, 
The prison-door flew open, and they dragged me 
Not shrieking — as perhaps I now do shriek — > 
But with a cold weight sickening at my heart 



$76 THE CONVICT. Part II. 

That in convulsions drown'd a thousand shrieks, 

And brought at last a dark forgetfulness 

Of my own sufferings, and my husband's doom. 

Long streets seem'd passing slowly by my brain, 

And fields and trees — until at once I knew 

The faces of my weeping family, 

And this my Father's house. A dreadful dream ! 

Yet could I wish to rave of it for ever ! 

\Her eldest Daughter steals up with a Book in her 
hand.~\ 
Daughter. Here is a book which little Mary Grieve, 
(She who has wept as much for my poor Father 

As if she were a sister of our own) 

Gave me a week ago, a happy book, 

Which lies below my pillow when I sleep. 

Look at it Mother ! 'tis the history 

Of one repriev'd when just about to die. 

I have read it till it seems a sad true tale 

Of all my Father's woe— and when I read it 

Ev'n on the darkest day, believe me Mother, 

A gleam of sunshine falls upon the leaves, 

Straight down from heaven ! There is a picture — look ! 

Is it not like my Father's gentle face ? 

Wife, [grasping the book.) As sure as God is in hea- 
ven ! it is the same ! — 

His wife and children too with eyes and faces 

Of mad delirious joy all fix'd on heaven ! 

And well they may— then and for evermore. 



Scene U. THE CONVICT. 277 

Daughter. I show'd it to our clergyman— he smil'd — 
And laid his gentle hand upon my hair, 
And with a low kind voice he bade me hope. 

Wife. He bade thee hope ! 

Daughter. Yes — and I thought he wept. 

Wife, He tried to comfort the sweet innocent ! 

Daughter. Though I should see my father in the cart 
Passing our very door 

Wife. Will he pass our door ? 

I will rush out and clasp him, and beseech 
Kind heaven to let me die upon his breast. 

[Goes towards the door.'] 
I had forgot — we are not at Lea- side. 
— Come to me little William — weep not child ! 

Boy. O yesterday we suw a dreadful sight ! 

Daughter. William — hold your peace. 

Wife. What saw my little boy ? 

Boy. We went last night to meet with Mary Grieve 
Coming from school. And oh ! upon the bridge 
Two men were building up — I did not ask them — 
They told me what it was — and we ran home 
Fearing to look back. 

Wife. O shut out the sun 

That blinds my soul with its accursed light ! 
Close — close the shutters — that eternal darkness 
May cover me and my poor family, 
And the wild world with all its miseries 
Be blank as if we all were in the grave. 

[The shutters are closed.] 



278 THE CONVICT. Part II. 

Boy. Mother ! let me come closer to your knees ! 
Wife. O let the light come in — this silent darkness 
Is worse than light — light is but mockery — 
But darkness is the haunted tomb of death 
Which shuddering nature never may endure. 
— I never thought thy face so sad before 
As in that sudden light. — (clock strikes. - )— -What hour ? 
what hour ? 
Friend. Your husband's strife is o'er. 
Wife. Praise be to God. 

{Falls on her knees.) O Thou that art an angel in the 

sky, 
Strengthen my soul that I on earth may cherish 
Those whom thou lov'st — these infants round my feet. 
Friend. Such prayers go up to heaven — swifter than 

light. 
Wife. The body shall have Christian-burial ! 
I will away that no base hand disturb it. 
What though it felt the cruel death of shame. 
Is it not beautiful and fair to see, 
As if he rested from the harvest- toil 
In some cool shady place o'erhung with trees ? 
It shall be dress'd with flowers — a thousand times, 
A thousand thousand times my lips will kiss it, 
And when it is laid in the grave at last, 
Oh ! will not tears from many hundred eyes 
Fall on the coffin, and a hundred tongues 
Bless him th' unhappy — him the innocent ? 



Scene II. THE CONVICT. 279 

— Methinks I can endure the daylight now. 

[She goes to the window."] 

Lord ! yon hill-side is quite black with people 
All standing motionless — with heads uncover'd. 
Are they gazing all on him ? Alive ? or dead ? — 
This is a sight to drive my soul to madness, 

To blasphemy and disbelief in God ! 

Friend. I thought the hour was past. 

Wife. You knew it was not. 

Upon the self-same side of that black mount 

1 saw a pious congregation sitting 

Last summer's sacrament ! and now they come 
To enjoy an execution. Wretched things ! 
They little understand the words of Christ. 

Friend. It seems in truth most cruel —dreadful show 
Of fixed faces ! many a troubled soul 
Is gazing there, yet loves the agony 
It makes itself to suffer — turns away — 
Then looks and shudders, and with cheeks as wan 
And ghastly as the man about to die, 
Waits for the hideous moment— greedily 
Devouring every motion of his eyes 
Now only bent to heaven. 

Wife. O senseless wretches ! 

Thus tamely witnessing the guiltless die. 
Rush down upon the scaffold — rend it — crush it 
Into a thousand atoms — tear away 
Th* accursed halter from his innocent neck, 



2S0 THE CONVICT. Part II. 

And send him like a lark let loose to heaven, 

Into the holy light of liberty. 

— One hour delay the execution ! 

For from afar the words of mercy come — 

I hear them on the wind—" Reprieve — Reprieve" — 

O gazing multitude ! look grim no more, 

But shout until both earth and heaven reply 

Salvation is at hand — Reprieve — Reprieve. 

[She rushes out into the air followed by her Friend and 
her children^ who endeavour to restrain her in vain,"] 

SCENE III. 
A Meld in the Country. — Labourers reposing. 

The Master. Come Mary Macintyre — give us a song, 
Then to our work again. Thou hast a voice 
So sweet, that even the Linnet on the broom 
Might take a lesson from thee. 

SO^G. 
A bird in Spring had built her nest 

In a tuft o' flowres on a Castle-wa', 
Whare saftly on her bonny breast, 

The dew and light o' heaven did fa'. 

Amang the moss and silky hair 

Twa young anes lay in love thegither — 

And oh ! their yellow plumes were fair 
When glinting in the sunny weather. 



Scene III. THE CONVICT. S81 

Upon that Tower for many an hour 

Anither bird would sit and sing, 
Or resting on that red wa-flow'r 

In sleep would fauld his gowden wing. 

Ae morning at the break o' day 

I saw the nest a* pearl'd wi' dew, 
That like a net of diamonds lay 

Aboon that flow'r o' freshest hue. 

I could na see the bonnie Bird, 

She cower'd sae close upon her nest, 

But that saft ither sang I heard 

That lull'd her and her brood to rest. 

Sweet through the silent dawning rung 

The pleasure o' that lanely sang, 
And the auld Tower again look'd young 

That psalm sae sweetly sail'd alang. 

Mair sweetly breath'd the birchen grove 

That wav'd upon the Castle-Hill, 
And a' the earth look'd fresh wi* love 

The moment that the sang was still I 

At gloaming I cam back that way, 

But I miss'd the flower sae red and sweer, 

And the nest whare thae twa birdies lay, 
Waes me ! was herried at my feet. 

I wud na weep for the dead wa-flower, 

Sweet birds ! gin I kent whare ye were gane, 



282 THE CONVICT. Part II. 

But the low has blacken'd the auld Mearns-Tower, 
And bluid is drapping frae ilka stane. 

And he that herried the Lint- white's nest, 
And kill'd the auld birds wi' his sling, 

He wud na' spare the chirping breast 
Nor the down upon the wee bit wing. 

Master. It is an old traditionary song. 
The Maxwells in a body from Hag- Castle 
At midnight came, and burn'd the good Mearns-Tower, 
With young Laird Stewart and his English Lady, 
And their four pretty bairns. They burn'd them all. 
The Lady's blood is still upon the stones 
Of the west-corner. Many a Washing storm 
Hath driven across them, yet they still are red. 
'Tis two o'clock, come to our work again ! 

Young Man. Oh ! I am sick at heart ! this very mo- 
ment, 
Is my poor Master standing on the scaffold ! 
Go, go to work — 1 will kneel down and pray 
For his departing sOul. 

[Kneels down."] 

Master. His hour is come. 

Men, women, children, now all rush to see him 
In his white death-clothes standing like a ghost ! 
Aye, lasses, ye may weep — yet will that crowd 
Show many a female face — girls like yourselves 
In their best gowns adorn'd for holiday, — 

1 



Scene III. THE CONVICT. 283 

And wives that love their husbands — and even mothers 
With infants in their arms. Confound their cruelty. 
Enough of death there is in this wide world 
Near each man's fireside, or his neighbour's house ! 
Why rush to see him in the open day-light 
Standing with fear, and shame, and agony ? 

Mary. Oh ! on that sweet hill-side he often sat 
Watching his young spring-lambs ! and now even there 
Is he about to die the death of shame ! 

Master. Methinks I see the hill-side all alive, 
With silent faces gazing steadfastly 
On one poor single solitary wretch, 
Who views not in the darkness of his trouble 
One human face among the many thousands 
All staring towards the scaffold ! Some are there 
Who have driven their carts with his unto the market, 
Have shook hands with him meeting at the Fair, 
Have in his very cottage been partakers 
Of the homely fare which rev'rently he blessed, 
Yea ! who have seen his face in holier places, 
And in the same seat been at worship with him, 
Within the House of God. May God forgive them ! 

Mary. He is not guilty. 

Master. Every thing is dark. 

Last in the company of the murder'd man — 
Blood on his hands — a bloody knife concealed — 
The coin found on him which the widow swore to — 
His fears when apprehended— and the falsehoods 



284 THE CONVICT. Part II. 

Which first he utter'd — all perplex my mind ! 
And then they say the murder'd body bled, 
Soon as he touch'd it.— Let us to our work, 
Poor people oft must work with heavy hearts. 
— Oh ! doth that sunshine smile as cheerfully 
Upon Lea- side as o'er my happy fields ! 

{The Scene changes to a little f eld commanding a 
view of the place of execution. Two Young Men 
looking towards it."] 
1st Man. I dare to look no longer. — What dost thou 

see ? 
2d Man. There is a stirring over all the crowd. 
All heads are turn'd at once. O God of heaven ! 
There Francis Russel comes upon a cart, 
For which a lane is open'd suddenly ! 
On, on it goes — and now it has arrived 
At the scaffold foot. 

1st Man. Say ! dost thou see his face ? 

2d Man, Paler than ashes. 

1st Man (coming forward J. Let me have one look. 

what white cheeks ! see, see — his upward eyes 
Even at this distance have a ghastly glare. 

1 fear that he is guilty. Fear has bathed 
In clammy dew his long lank raven hair. 

His countenance seems convulsed— it is not paleness 
That dims his cheeks— but a wild yellow hue 
Like that of mortal sickness or of death. 



Scene III. THE CONVICT. 285 

Oh ! what the soul can suffer, when the Devil 
Sits on it, grimly laughing o'er his prey, 
Like a carrion-bird beside some dying beast, 
Croaking with hunger and ferocity. 

[He turns away."] 

2d Man. He is standing on the scaffold — he looks 
round — 
But does not speak — some one goes up to him — 
He whispers in his ear — he kisses him — 
He falls on his knees — now no one on the scaffold 
But he and that old Wretch ! a rope is hanging 
Right over his head — and as my Maker liveth 
That demon as he grasps it with his fingers 
Hath laughter on his face. 

1st Man. How look the crowd ? 

2d Man. I saw them not — but now ten thousand 
faces 
Are looking towards him with wide-open eyes ! 
Uncover'd every head — and all is silent 
And motionless, as if 'twere all a dream. 

1st Man. Is he still praying ? 

2d Man. I can look no more, 

For death and horror round his naked neck 
Are gathering ! Curse those lean and shrivell'd fingers 
That calmly — slowly — and without a tremble — 
Are binding unto agony and shame 
One of God's creatures with a human souk 
— Hark ! hark ! a sudden shriek— a yell— a shout ! 



286* THE CONVICT. Part II. 

The whole crowd tosses like a stormy sea. 
But oh ! behold how still and motionless 
That figure on the scaffold ! 

1st Man. What can it mean ? 

2d Man. Perhaps with one soul all the crowd rise up 
To rescue him from death. 

1st Man. Let us away 

And know what happens. Hark ! another shout 
That rends the silent sky. See hats are waved 1 
And every face is bright — deliverance 
Is in that peal of joy — he shall not die. 

[Scefie ehanges to the place of execution.] 

Sheriff. Bring the man up — and let us hear his story. 
\_A Soldier is dragged along by the crowd."] 

Soldier. I am the murderer. 

One of the crowd. Here is Stephen's watch — 

The watch of the murder'd man — and his very purse — 
Both found upon the villain. 

Sheriff. 'Tis strong proof. 

— What have you got to say against this charge ? 

Soldier. I robb'd and murder'd him — that's all — 'tis 
true. 

One of the crowd. Just as the prisoner rose up from 
his knees, 
This soldier at my side took out his watch, 
And with a cruel and unchristian oath 
Proclaim'd the hour, in laughing mockery. 
My eye by chance fell on it— and the truth 



Scene III. THE CONVICT. 2S? 

Burst on my soul. I leapt upon the wretch, 
And with a horrid cry he made confession 
That he was the guilty man. 

Sheriff. Scarce credible. 

Soldier. 'Tis true. Last night I saw the Evil- One 
In human shape — as I sat among my comrades, 
He stood close to my side — invisible 
To all but me — and with a fiery eye 
He then commanded me to go this day 
And see the execution. So I came ! 
— And now behold the open gates of hell ! 

Sheriff. The execution cannot thus proceed. 

Soldier. A little while — but yet a little while — 
And I will come into the roaring pit 
To dwell for ever with the damn'd ! 

One of the crowd. Mad — mad ! 

Sheriff. Aye ! 'tis the madness of despair and guilt. 
Unhalter yon poor wretch — he must be carried 
Back to his prison — till the truth appear. 

[The Prisoner's wife, accompanied by her Friend 
and children, rush through the crowds} 

Wife. Come down— come down—my husband ! from 
the scaffold. 
— O Christ ! art thou alive — or dead with fear ! 
Let me leap up with one bound to his side, 
And strain him to my bosom till our souls 
Are mix'd like rushing waters. 



288 THE CONVICT. Part II. 

Dost hear thy Alice ? Come down from the scaffold, 
And walk upon the green and flowery earth 
With me, thy wife, in everlasting joy ! 

{She tries to move forward, but falls down in a faint' 
ing-fiW] 
One of the crowd. See — see his little daughter ! how 
she tears 
The covering from his eyes — unbinds the halter — 
Leaps up to his bosom — and with sobs is kissing 
His pale fix*d face. " I am thy daughter — Father !" 
But there he stands — as lifeless as a stone — 
Nor sees — nor feels— nor hears — his soul seems gone 
Upon a dismal travel ! 

{The Prisoner is led doxvnfrom the scaffold, with 
Ms daughter held unconsciously in his arms.~\ 
Prisoner. Must this wild dream be all dream't o'er 
again ! 
Who put this little Child into my arms ? My wife 
Lying dead ! — Thy judgments heaven ! are terrible. 
The Clergyman. Look up — this world is shining out 
once more 
In welcome to thy soul recalled from death. 

Prisoner. Oh ! might that be —but this is not a dream 
From which I may awake — What, what has happened ? 
Clergyman. The murderer is discovered. 

[The prisoner falls on his knees, and his wife, who 
has recovered, goes and kneels by his side.~] 



Scene III. THE CONVICT. 289 

Clergyman, Crowd not so round them — let the glad 
fresh air 
Enter into their souls. 

Prisoner, Alice ! one word ! 
Let me hear thy voice assuring me of life. 
Ah me ! that soft cheek brings me by its touch 
From the black, dizzy, roaring brink of death, 
At once into the heart of happiness ! 
— Gasping with gratitude ! she cannot speak. 

Wife, I never shall smile more — but all my days 
Walk with still footsteps, and with humble eyes, 
An everlasting hymn within my soul . 
To the great God of Mercy ! 

Prisoner (starting up), O thou bright angel with that 
golden hair, 
Scattering thy smiles like sunshine through the light, 
Art thou my own sw r eet Daughter ! Come, my Child 
Come dancing on into thy Father's soul ! 
Come with those big tears sparkling on thy cheeks, 
And let me drink them with a thousand kisses. 
— That laugh hath fiU'd the silent world with joy ! 

Child, This night I will sit upon your knees once 
more, — 
And oh ! if ever I offend my Father ! ♦ » • • 
No — never—never ! — All our Cottage stands 
Just as vou left it — the old oaken chair 



290 THE CONVICT. Part II. 

Will be fill'd to-night, — and our sweet hearth will 

burn 
As it used to do — upon my Father's face ! 
— I too will pray— for though a little Child, 
God now will hear my prayers ! 

Prisoner (looking round). The fields and hills 
Have now return'd into their usual shape, 
And all the sunny earth seems beautiful 

As in my boyish days ! Oh ! tell me — tell me — 

Did I disgrace myself by abject fear 

On the way from prison to yon hideous place ? 

Clergyman. No — thou wert calm 

Prisoner. My friend — O say not so, 

For from the moment that I left the prison 
Blind horror seized me — and I thought the earth 
Was reddening round me from the bloody sky. 
I recollect some faces in the cart 
Glimmering ! and something like a bridge we past 
Over a deep glen fill'd with raging thunder ! 
Then all was hush'd — and rose the voice of psalms* 
Doleful and wild ! when suddenly I stood 
In the fixed gazing of a million eyes, 
And the feeling of my own identity 
Came like a flash of lightning through my heart. 

Crowd. Huzza ! huzza ! the guiltless is set free ! 
Lea-side to-night, and all its happy fields, 



Scene III. THE CONVICT* «Gi 

Shall shine as bright as in the gladsome clay. 
For we will kindle on yon little green 
A bonfire that shall set the heavens on flame, 
And send up sparkling to the far-off stars 
Beams like themselves— bright with deliverance. 
Huzza ! huzza ! The guiltless is set free ! 
[The scene closes^ 



The preceding scenes formed the conclusion of a dramatic 
poem, of which the first part was accidentally destroyed. I 
had narrated the circumstances which attached suspicion of 
the crime of murder to an innocent man — his terror and dis- 
may on the charge being made against him — his trial and 
conviction — and the grief and misery of his family. The 
scenes now published must therefore, I feelj be perused with 
less interest, than if the reader had been previously made to 
sympathise keenly with the character and situation of the 
convict and his family. 



THE SISTERS. 



Sweet Creature ! issuing like a dream 

So softly from that wood ! 

— She glideth on a sunny gleam — 

In youth in innocence so bright, 

She lendeth lustre to day-light, 

And life to solitude ! 

O'er all her face a radiance fair 

That seemeth to be native there ! 

No transient smile, no burst of joy 

Which time or sorrow may destroy, 

A soul- breathed calm that ne'er may cease 1 

The spirit of eternal peace ! 

The sunshine may forsake the sky, 

But the blue depths of ether lie 

In steadfast meek serenity. 

Onward she walks — with that pure face 

Shedding around its gladdening grace — 

Those cloudless eves of tenderest blue 

Sparkling through a tearlike dew — 



THE SISTERS. 293 

That golden hair that floats in air 

Fine as the glittering gossamer — 

That motion dancing o'er the earth 

Without an aim — in very m.rth — 

That lark-like song whose strengthening measure 

Is soaring through the air of pleasure — 

— Is she not like the innocent Morn ? 

When from the slow-unfolding arms 

Of Night, she starts in all her charms, 

And o'er the glorious earth is borne, 

With orient pearls beneath her feet, — 

All round her, music warbling sweet, 

And o'er her head the fulgent skies 

In the fresh light of Paradise. 

Lo ! Sadness by the side of Joy ! 

— With raven tresses on her brow 

Braided o'er that glimpse of snow — 

O'er her bosom stray locks spread 

As if by grief dishevelled — 

Unsparkling eyes where smiles appear 

More mournful far than many a tear — 

Voice most gentle, sad, and slow, 

Whose happiest tones still breathe of woe — 

As in our ancient Scottish airs 

Even joy the sound of sorrow wears — 

Motion like a cloud that goes 

From deep to more profound repose — 



294 THE SISTERS. 

Seems she not in pensive light 
Image of the falling night ? 
— Still survive faint gleams of day, 
But all sinking to decay — 
There is almost mirth and gladness, 
Temper'd soft with peace and sadness- 
Sound comes from the stream and hill, 
But the darkening world is still — 
The heavens above are bright and holy, 
Most beautiful — most melancholy — 
And gazing with suspended breath, 
We dream of grief — decay — and death i 



THE FAREWELL AND RETURN 



I went where two dear friends did dwell, 
Husband and Wife —to bid farewell, 
Before 1 left my peaceful home, 
Alone through distant lands to roam. 
I found them by their sparkling hearth, 
In perfect love and inward mirth — 
Through virtue happy in themselves, 
And sporting with four beauteous Elves, 
Who, like the tender flowers of Spring 
Mov'd by the zephyr's lightest wing, 
Danced here and there in playful guise, 
With sunny heads and laughing eyes, 
With song of joy and wanton shout — 
A happy — restless— maddening rout ! 

They look unto the opening door, 
And all their noisy mirth is o'er ! 
To graveness sink their wanton wiles, 
And blushes hide their struggling smiles. 



296 THE FAREWELL AND RETURN. 

Quick to their mother's lap they run, 
As trembling to be look'd upon- — 
There half- delighted — half-afraid, 
They hide, then slowly raise the head— 
And venture thus to look at me 
With sweet restraint and bashful glee, 
Till the dear child I love the best 
With downcast look steals from the rest, 
And with an infant's blessed art 
Twines her white arms around my heart. 

And now the stir— the noise revive ! 

The little cottage seems alive, 

As if a new-awaken'd soul 

Like light were gladdening through the whole. 

The happy parents smile to see 

Their Mary lisping on my knee 

With bolder look and freer tone, 

As if she felt that seat her own. 

Wliiie oft her gamesome brothers tried 

To win from my protecting side 

The little truant maid away, 

By taunting jibe and novel play. 

But vain both jibe and play to move 

An infant's heart when touch'd w r ith love ! 

Sood evening brings the hour of rest — 
And Mary on my loving breast 



THE FAREWELL AND RETURN. 297 

Hath fallen asleep ! so not to wake 
The blessed babe, I gently take 
Her guiltless bosom soft and fair, 
Unto her bed — and breathe a prayer 
That all her future life be spent 
Happy as she is innocent ! 
Near me her joyful parents stand, 
Bless me by name and press my hand-r- 
Their mingling tones my spirit meet, 
Though always kind now doubly sweet— 
A golden chain in concord mild 
Links closely Parents — Friend and Child. 

Years past along— and lo ! once more 
I stand beside that cottage-door ; — 
The hour in which I went away 
Seems but the eve of yesterday. 
Motionless there I linger long, 
O'erpower'd with a tumultuous throng 
Of memories, fancies, hopes, and fears, 
Sinkings of heart, sighs, smiles, and tears. 
No cause had I for mournful thought, 
Yet in my beating heart there wrought 
A dread of something undefined ! 
While like the hollow midnight wind, 
A voice fell sullen on my ear, 
" Think not to find your Mary here !" 



298 THE FAREWELL AND RETURN, 

A dreary stillness reign'd around 
Deep as the hush of burial-ground, 
As if all life were banish'd thence 
By breath of noisome pestilence. 
Not so — I met a ghastly man 
With haggard eyes and visage wan ; 
In his dim looks so charg'd with woe 
My dearest friend I scarce could know. 
One moment's pause — then did he fall 
Upon my neck — and told me all ! 
That she my darling girl was dead, 
And by his own hands newly laid 
Spotless within her spotless shroud — 
His voice here died — he wept aloud. 

Vainly his tortur'd soul I cheer'd^- 
When lo ! his wretched Wife appear d, 
Unlike that Wife when last we parted, 
Then deeply blest — now broken-hearted. 
She gaz'd on me with eye-balls wild, 
And shriek'd the name of her dead Child ; 
And with convulsive sobs opprest 
She fainted on her Husband's breast ! 
The memory of that happy night 
Came o'er her like a sudden blight ! 
Those gentle looks — those melting smiles — 
Those happy shouts — those wanton wiles — 



THE FAREWELL AND RETURN. 299 

That dreaming face upon its bed— 

— Now lying there> pale, cold, and dead ! 

Ah me ! beneath a beauteous sky 
The Fairy-land of peace doth lie, 
Through which united Spirits stray 
Companions on the destin'd way 
That leads to everlasting life ! 
Yet oft that darkening sky is rife 
With thunder-bearing clouds ! they fade-*- 
And heaven's blue depths again display'd 
Seem steep'd in quiet more profound ! 
— I walk'd unto the burial-ground, 
Where that delightful Child doth rest— ^ 
There both her Parents deeply blest ! 
Methought I saw their souls rejoice, 
Listening in heaven that Seraph's voice. 



THE END. 



Printed by George Ramsay and Co. 
Edinburgh, 1816. 



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